


wounds that never heal

by lightyaers



Series: her father's revolver [2]
Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: 1920s, Abuse, Angst, But Still Kinda Canon, Continuation, Death, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Female Reader, Grief/Mourning, Love, Love Triangles, Lovers to Friends, Michael Gray is a Snacc, Original Characters - Freeform, Peaky Blinders - Freeform, Pining, Romance, Season/Series 03, Sexual Tension, She/Her, Swearing, Tommy Shelby Has a Heart, Two Years Later, Unresolved Tension, non-canon, reader is a badass
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:20:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 45,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23719603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightyaers/pseuds/lightyaers
Summary: “It’ll do you well not to speak to me like that, young lady,”Young lady. Typical.“It’ll do you well not to talk down on me, Mr Kinsmen. I own this establishment, me and me alone. I own it legitimately, inside the law, and it is mine,” He stayed silent as you continued. “If anything threatens that, I will take legal action. I am secure. I am protected—And you don’t want to see me mad, Mr Kinsmen. You really don’t,”After leaving Birmingham, you thought that it would be easy to move on. Even if you're still plagued with dreams, even if you still think about the Shelby's from time to time, you knew that you'd be better off after you left it all behind.Two years later, time eventually catches up with you-- The Shelby's come back into your life in the worst of circumstances.
Relationships: Michael Gray & Reader, Tommy Shelby/Reader
Series: her father's revolver [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1708357
Comments: 159
Kudos: 507





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all!
> 
> I know I just finished part one to this, but I wanted to give you all an idea of what this fic will surround. We're in season three territory now in terms of story, so to all of you asking about Tommy and Grace and what happened, you'll find out very soon!! The same TW apply to this fic as they did the first, so just be warned!
> 
> Michael will also be a larger part, since reader is 22 and Michael is 20 now. 
> 
> Tell me what you'd like to see in this fic in the comments by the way! I'll see what I can incorporate. 
> 
> Hope you're all well, enjoy!

**Prologue**

An odd feeling dawned on you, the moment you held those keys within your hands;

You knew where the Shelby’s operated, but they didn’t know where you did.

London differed from Small Heath the way a brick wall looks better after a layer of paint—it was all a façade. One that you wanted to make seem true. Legitimate business was all you had on your plate; no cutting corners; no becoming one of _them._

It had taken you just over seven months to save up enough, but finally it was yours. You pressed the cold keys into the palms of your hands, taking in the space that you’d worked tirelessly to call your own.

When Polly had discussed your skills, you’d joked about owning a speakeasy.

On the train to London, the idea had settled itself in your mind—

You’d have your own club. You, and only you.

That day had finally come.

You’d never thought of yourself as the manager type, but as soon as you’d viewed the spot in Soho, there was no going back. You walked in and imagined the space as your own, with your own décor, your own drinks menu, your own entertainment. Your place wouldn’t disguise itself as lavish, when it was in fact a cesspit for criminals and murderers. Your place would be genuine; fun; a place for everyone to enjoy.

By your eighth month in London, it was almost finished. Decked out with thrifted furniture, an old copper bar-top with matching stools, a varnished stage for musicians and dancers, glass chandeliers that reflected light around the room in crystal waves—

_It was done._

And opening day was upon you.

“Martin!” You yelled. You sat at your vanity, putting on a pair of earrings in the mirror. Martin ran down the corridor, stopping when he reached your doorway.

He was of slim build, with dirty blond hair and an honest face. You’d met your first week in London, when you’d got a job at a fancy restaurant near Tottenham Court Road. When you bought the club, you gave him a job as bar manager. You shared the flat above the club together—as friends.

Nothing more.

Besides, he was a ridiculously short man. In heels, which you’d taken to wearing now, he only came up to your chin.

You looked at Martin through your mirror. “Did that table of twelve for cocktails get back to you?”

“Yeah, they’re coming around ten.” He replied. You finished with your earrings, standing up and checking the rest of your outfit in the mirror.

“Brilliant,” You added, nodding at yourself in the mirror, content with the way you looked. Martin lingered in your doorway, giving you a once over. You saw him in your peripheral vision. “What? Too flashy?” You asked him, he immediately retreated slightly.

“How do you _do_ that? Noticing things so _easily_ ,” He almost whispered.

“It’s not a bad thing to be vigilant,” You fiddled with the collar of your outfit. It was black and mesh with long sleeves, before the material became opaque at your breasts and below. Instead of a cocktail dress, you donned a jumpsuit. Long black culottes covered your legs, and small black heels tied everything together.

“You scare me sometimes, y’know,” Martin added, sending you a small chuckle. You turned to him with a smirk on your lips.

“You’re a wuss if that’s the case,” You approached him, immediately going to straighten out his bowtie without hesitation. “Done,” You smacked his lapels once, sending him a bright smile. “Let’s do this,”

You made your way to the main bar, triple checking tables, lighting candles here and there, counting the bottles of scotch and gin that lined the back of the bar. You thought of the Garrison, so gold and light, almost overexposed for a town such as Small Heath. 

You named your place "The Red Rose". Inside, it lived up to its name. Draped with red silks and velvets, your own paintings hung on the walls, framed in gold. It had been a labour of love from start to finish to turn it into this, and finally it had all come together. 

Despite the time that had passed, you still thought of them all-- The Shelby's. You wondered if Polly would smile at the work you'd done. You wondered if John and Arthur would enjoy the cocktails you'd created--

You wondered if Tommy would ever randomly show up here, in London for business, unknowing that you were the owner. 

"No," You thought. "I left them all,"

You tapped the bar top with your fingers, raising your eyebrows at Martin excitedly, before making your way to the front doors.

The band was ready, the liquor was prepared—

You opened the doors on your new life.


	2. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! I am fully back in my writing stride and excited to kick this off officially. 
> 
> I thank you for your continued support and pray you're all well during this time.
> 
> Don't forget to leave me suggestions in the comments if you so wish!
> 
> Enjoy x

** Two Years After Leaving Birmingham **

There it was again; that same stationary; that same address—

Another letter from Tommy’s _estate_. Two within the space of sixth months. The first; a wedding invitation, to the joining together of Thomas Shelby and Grace Burgess—you’d ripped it to shreds. You knew Polly had been the one to invite you anyway.

This one, you didn’t know, and a part of you never wanted to break open the wax seal on the back.

A few times it had dawned on you how the hell the Shelby’s knew where you operated now, but that was actually your fault. When you’d moved into The Red Rose, you sent Polly a letter, after far too much gin. It wasn’t even a letter, it was just one of your business cards that you’d had made—your name, your business hours, and your business address. Maybe they knew that you lived in the same place, but maybe not.

You pondered about whether or not the Shelby’s actually cared about you anymore. After you’d intruded on their lives, screwed up parts of their business, been a pain and got yourself kidnapped—

Left without saying goodbye.

Did they care about you now? After all the time that had passed?

From the look of things, the Shelby’s were doing incredibly well for themselves. Tommy owned an estate, business was booming, they’d moved up in the world from a small bookies on Watery Lane. You didn’t know if you were worth their pay grade anymore—probably not.

Besides, your life was here now.

You _loved_ your speakeasy more than any person.

You _craved_ the thrill of opening the doors at eight every night.

You _needed_ the liveliness of the band, the cocktails, the laughter—

All of the things you’d thought you wanted from another person, you’d got on your own. All of that time you wasted overthinking things, you’d finally found a way to gradually get it back.

So why were you still thinking about them?

“What’s that?” Martin chided from behind the bar. You fiddled with the letter in your hands.

“None of your concern,” You replied, before folding it in half and sticking it in your trouser pocket. Martin almost pouted.

“Come on, fancy stationary, a bloody wax seal. It’s not from the King, is it?” You shot him a scowl.

“Just do your job, Martin,” The words that left your mouth tasted sour. Martin frowned at you, his brows furrowing into something sad. You kept your expression blunt, before turning away and doing the final checks before opening.

“You know, I’m your _friend_ , right?” You stopped at Martin’s words. “You don’t think I notice how cut off you are from other people? You don’t think I notice when something is on your mind?” You refused to look at him. “We’ve known each other, what, two years now? But still I hardly know anything about you. Sure, I know that you prefer coffee in the morning than tea. I know that you like to wear trousers instead of skirts. I know that you have a weird amount of knowledge about business that, frankly, a twenty-two-year old woman doesn’t usually know,”

You held your breath, waiting for him to finish—praying for him to stop.

“But I don’t _know_ you, Y/N.” He stopped, and a strange atmosphere floated through the room.

“I’m not important,” You spoke. “You don’t _need_ to know me,”

“I’d _like_ to, though. I just want to— _help_. Help a friend.”

He kept saying the word friend. Why did he keep saying the word friend?

You thought about the last four years of your life. After the war, after your father and brothers disappeared, so did all the friendships you’d made. In Small Heath, you’d never considered any of the Shelby’s your friends—more like people you just knew—people who you saw everyday—your _employers._

Back then, despite loving Tommy, was he actually, first and foremost, your _friend_?

“We’ve lived together for over a year, Y/N. You’ve given me a home, a job, some kind of purpose—,” Martin stopped, taking in a breath. “I don’t know. I just hoped I could do the same for you, someday.” He chuckled to himself, but you noted the sadness within his voice.

Had you always been this harsh?

Or was it a side effect of being around _them_ for that time—of being used to keeping things inside instead of letting it all out.

“I’m sorry,” You spoke, finally. You let out a pent-up breath and turned back to him. “I guess I’m just not used to having someone I can trust,” Martin’s face softened. He shot you a smile.

“It’s okay. The offer still stands, though. If you ever need an outlet,” You could tell he was being sincere. From the moment you’d met him, you’d had a good feeling. A feeling you hadn’t had about anyone in a very long time. It wasn’t anything more than platonic—you got the sense Martin had had his heartbroken, as well. He was slightly older than you, and definitely not a Londoner either.

“Thank you,” You regarded him, before checking your watch. “It’s five to,” You noted, heading towards the door.

As you walked, you tapped the letter in your pocket. You’d read it eventually. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow—

But soon.

-

By midnight, the club was booming. You’d be lying to yourself if you’d said you weren’t doing well. Ever since you opened, flocks of people had been coming night after night. They enjoyed the atmosphere, the absence of criminal activity and gang territory, the freedom of simply having a good time.

On occasion, you’d get up and perform a song or two. People knew you by name now; you were _known_ ; respected; maybe discussed about in gossip—

It was unusual for a woman, not even in her mid-twenties, to be such a renowned club owner, but you’d be lying if you said it didn’t make you feel somewhat mysterious and powerful.

Your work force had grown into a small huddle of people who you could trust; though you’d made it abundantly clear that if lines were crossed, jobs would be taken away as easily as they’d been granted.

It wasn’t like the Garrison, besides the odd drunkard insisting to buy you a drink or have a dance. Those who put you or your staff in uncomfortable situations were barred permanently, so people knew not to overstep.

Tonight, despite feeling good when you opened the club, you could feel tension in the air.

With the rise in popularity, The Red Rose had been hosting more and more guests as the days went by. Some of these guests troubled you—

A well-known gang around Soho, the Kinsmen, were appearing on your radar more and more.

You made your way behind the bar when you saw him—Joseph Kinsmen, the eldest of four Kinsmen brothers, waltzed in. Immediately, he caught your eye and sent you a smile.

“Miss L/N,”

“Mr Kinsmen,” You regraded him politely, despite not wanting them anywhere near you or your business. They’d never caused a ruckus within your walls, but more guests were beginning to notice their presence.

It was bad for business.

“I trust you’re well, not too occupied with managing this place,” He sat at the bar opposite you.

“If I wasn’t managing this place then it would fall to the ground,” You said it as sweetly as you could. Joseph smirked at you, and you readied yourself for his drivel.

“Maybe you could use an extra pair of hands, an extra pair of eyes?”

“How very nice of you, but unfortunately I’m not hiring,” You shot him a smile. His smirk immediately faded.

“Perhaps we could discuss the future of your establishment at my usual table? I’m intrigued to know the journey towards its success,” You knew this kind of talk. This wasn’t him asking, it was him _demanding_. Men had a way with words, a manipulative, slimy way of talking. Gang leaders were the worst at it—their words were disguised as sweet and gentlemanly, something that any unsuspecting person would fall right into.

Being around the Shelby’s had taught you the difference.

When you didn’t answer immediately, Joseph’s aura changed.

“I don’t need to remind you of who I _am_ and who I _know_ , do I, Miss L/N?”

That was his fatal mistake. You looked at him bluntly, your entire demeaner changing.

“Was that a _threat_ , Mr Kinsmen?”

“Why? Do you feel threatened?” His voice had changed into a coarse whisper, loud enough only for you to hear.

“It’s humorous that you think I feel _anything_ but protected, Mr Kinsmen, but you know my policy here.”

“Oh? You’ll have to remind me,” He sent you a forced grin. You leant on the bar before him, so close your foreheads almost touched.

“None. Of. Your. _Fucking_. Business,”

His grin dropped, replaced by a scowl.

“It’ll do you well not to speak to me like that, young lady,”

_Young lady. Typical._

“It’ll do you well not to talk down on _me_ , Mr Kinsmen. I own this establishment, me and me alone. I own it legitimately, inside the law, and it is _mine_ ,” He stayed silent as you continued. “If anything threatens that, I will take legal action. I am secure. I am _protected_ —

And you don’t want to see me mad, Mr Kinsmen. You really don’t,”

You never got tired of seeing men fall from their podium. You never got tired of them seeing you in this new light. It would always leave them speechless.

“You’re bluffing,” He said finally, but the harsh tone in his voice had all but vanished.

“ _Try me_ ,”

You saw him gulp; his Adams apple bobbing uncomfortably in his throat. You retreated, and immediately put back on a sweet smile. “Now—the usual? Scotch on the rocks?” You said energetically, pouring him his drink.

You slid the glass across the bar top to him. “On the house. Enjoy your evening, Sir,”

Before he could say another word, you exited the bar and made your way to the back room, for employees only. You felt his stare on your back all the way there, but you’d simply delivered a threat back to the one he’d given you; it was standard gang logic. He couldn’t do anything—you were untouchable. If he tried anything, then measures you’d put in place would proceed—

Measures that you weren’t certain on completely, but ones that would scare any known gang before they went ahead with bringing you down.

You slumped against the wall, breathing deeply a few times. It was easy for you to fake confidence, but it was never easy to fake being threatening. Inside, you weren’t confrontational, but when you joined the industry you knew you had to exude that kind of aura. You had to, or else anyone would waltz through your door and take your business from you easily.

You were reminded of John’s words from the past—

_It’s a reputation we built to keep us safe._

You tried not to dwell on the Shelby’s, but sometimes it was impossible. You missed them dearly. John and he playfulness, Arthur and his brash personality, Polly and her amazingness. You missed sitting in the kitchen with them, you missed their stories—

_You missed Tommy._

Of course, you did. You were only human.

But you found that whenever you thought, dreamt, remembered him—the urge to vomit would take you over completely.

Striking blue eyes, gun metal in the air, splattered blood already soaking through his suit—

You clamped your eyes shut, taking in deeper breaths as you felt your stomach flip within your body. It was the same every time, no matter how hard you tried to get past the sick feeling—it never stopped.

So, you stopped thinking of him instead.

As you did so, your hand trailed to your pocket. You plucked out the sealed letter, unfolding it in your hands. You exhaled a shaky breath and snapped the wax seal apart. You wouldn’t be ceremonious about this; it was just a letter; and it probably wasn’t even sent by him. You knew Polly would have access to his stationary for the business.

You recognised her handwriting immediately. She hadn’t even used a typewriter.

_Y/N,_

_Grace Shelby was shot and killed six days ago. Her funeral was held five days after her demise._

_Come and see us. I beg. And I do not beg._

_Polly Gray_

You read the letter three times before the words sunk into your skull.

Thoughts bombarded your brain like machine gun rounds—

Thoughts of sadness, of feeling, of something you couldn’t place—

But the only thing you could let out at that moment—

“ _Fuck_.”


	3. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm doing that thing where I have no self control and upload multiple times per day.
> 
> Oh well.

You’d never missed a day of opening the club doors since the beginning, and now you’d be missing it for a week in a row. The drive up to Birmingham had taken the whole day—you’d only had your licence for less than a year, and had only driven for about twenty minutes at a time. It was _scary_ to say the least.

Tommy’s estate was on the outskirts of Birmingham, in the heart of green fields and forest. The driveway was half a mile long, and for the duration you found yourself holding your breath.

After reading Polly’s letter, you’d immediately started packing. You’d relinquished all manager duties to Martin in the meantime; you knew he could handle it. He didn’t ask questions about why you had to leave so abruptly, or where you were going—but you could see he felt hurt by you not telling him what was going on.

You made a vow to yourself that you’d tell him about things soon.

He was a good person.

As you approached the house, you wondered if you should have called in advance. It was obviously too late now; you’d just driven through the front gates—

Tommy’s estate loomed over you as you parked the car. The house was huge; all solid brick and sharp edges, topped off with stone statues as outside décor. The brick was the classic red of Birmingham, polished enough that it shone when the sun hit it. Large iron windows reflected the blue sky, and hefty oak doors stood in front of you strongly—

It was as if someone had turned Tommy’s personality into a building.

Hesitantly, you left the comfort of your car, slamming the door behind you. You retrieved your suitcase from the back and paused in the driveway, looking at the house once more. You were trembling slightly, and that same sick feeling had plastered its way into your gut the closer you’d got to Birmingham. It was unshakeable, and it was undeniable—

After two years, you were back.

It felt like some kind of failure, some kind of weakness, after the way you’d left.

Not once had you thought about the fact that you’d be face to face with Tommy again—

And now you were paying for it.

You tried desperately to calm yourself down as you made your way to the front door. You weren’t the same person that the Shelby’s knew from two years before. You weren’t the same scared little girl that you knew they perceived you to be, even just a little bit.

You were grown, you were an adult, a businesswoman, a powerhouse—

And you wouldn’t let them see you shaken up like this. No more.

You approached the door, reaching out for one of the large knockers. As you did so, you faltered—the sound of bolts unlocking hit your ears, and before you could step back the door creaked open forcefully—

“Y/N?”

Your eyes adjusted at the man stood in front of you, but still you had to squint.

“Michael?”

Michael Gray stood before you; but not the Michael Gray you’d known two years ago. He’d grown at least half a foot taller, and donned a grey waistcoat and trousers. A gold chain for a pocket watch dangled from his breast pocket. Those eyes; they were still his; but his jaw had sharpened out in a way that reminded you of Tommy. His hair was gelled back in the style of the era. He smelled like smoke—

He had _grown_.

“Fucking _hell_ ,” You blurted out. Immediately, you felt your cheeks redden. You took a step back and bumped into your suitcase. “ _Fuck_ —,” You bent over and picked it up, holding it close to your body. You shot your stare at Michael once more; he was smiling.

Before either of you could break the silence, Polly rushed up behind her son. She came between the two of you, and your face dropped. “Poll—,”

Without a word, she wrapped her arms around your neck. You dropped your suitcase to the floor, bringing your arms to wrap around her torso. You felt her shaking against you, her limbs clinging onto you for dear life. You melted into her embrace, shoving your face into her shoulder.

“Two bloody years,” She said, finally retreating slightly. She smiled at you sadly, giving you a once over. That’s when her face dropped—

Without warning, she whacked you with the sleeve of her cardigan; hard. You recoiled. “Hey!” You yelled, but she simply kept hitting you. “ _Polly_ —stop!”

“Two— _fucking_ —years!” Her eyes were ablaze of fire when she finally calmed down enough to brush the hair out of her face. She crossed her arms defensively, and you sent her a scowl. “ _No_ call, _no_ letter—apart from that _fucking_ business card— _honestly_ , Y/N—,”

“I owe you no explanation,” You said suddenly. You felt your walls building themselves up. Polly’s face softened, Michael almost held his breath. “I’m a grown woman. I can make my own bloody decisions without the need to tell anyone the reason why,”

Polly uncrossed her arms. You watched as Michael eyed his mother’s unwavering blank expression.

“You’re right,” She said finally. The surprise on Michael’s face almost made you chuckle, but you kept your gaze on Polly’s steely face. “Come in, for fucks sake,” She said it with the hint of a smile, before turning on her heels and heading back inside.

You picked up your suitcase and followed her, Michael shutting the door behind you.

“Boys!” Polly yelled, and the anxiety hit you like a truck.

It was too late to retreat when you heard footsteps approaching the entryway—

“Is that who I fucking think it is?” Arthur spoke roughly, half encased in shadow. When he came into the light, a smile occupied his entire face. “It _fucking_ is!” He yelled, bombarding into you and giving you a rough hug. He parted with you, smacking you on the shoulder a few times, his eyes gleaming. He looked you up and down, noticing your clothes. “Trousers—you’re wearing trousers—,”

“Get out the fucking way, Arthur,” You whipped your stare upwards, your heart-beat thumping in your ears.

John stood before you, a smirk present on his lips. You knew it was going to be a lot to take in when you saw them again, but you heavily underestimated it when it came to John.

John was the closest thing to a friend that you’d had two years ago. He wasn’t like the others, the Blinders, Arthur or Tommy—he was playful when he could be—he was serious when he had to be—he looked after you in subtle ways that you hadn’t understood until he wasn’t around anymore.

“John,” You said, feeling your throat close up ever so slightly.

You wouldn’t cry, you knew that. You hadn’t cried properly in years.

“Come here, you twat,” He said brightly, opening his arms. You didn’t hesitate sprinting into him, wrapping your arms around his neck. He picked you up easily, squeezing you until you were sure your ribs would crack.

“I don’t need another broken rib,” You stuttered out, along with a chuckle that hurt your lungs. He set you down swiftly, keeping his hands placed on your shoulders. You couldn’t help but smile up at him.

“God—look at ya,” He stammered out. “You’re all— _old_ ,” You raised your eyebrows at him.

“Old,” You repeated.

“Old.” He said, but it came out as more of a laugh.

You felt like kicking yourself for being nervous and anxious, but didn’t want to ruin the way it all felt at that moment. Poll, Michael—Arthur and John—seeing them all again had only made you realise how much you’d missed them—

How much it hurt you to leave without saying goodbye.

Back then, you felt like you’d had no other option.

You’d just witnessed the man you loved murder someone in cold blood, and that’s when Grace had arrived. Her being there had cemented all that you’d ever feared—

Tommy didn’t love you to way he loved her, and with her back in his life, you’d have no chance whatsoever.

_But_ —

_You also couldn’t do that to him._

You couldn’t stick around and force him to decide, to be confused, to feel like shit; even though you felt like you’d been thrown away; abandoned completely. You’d realised he’d been dealing with this conflict for the few weeks after your kidnapping, that’s why he’d been so distant.

It had been for _your_ sake, to not make it all worse.

The frenzied look Tommy had displayed when he’d come to the bar at the Derby also made sense to you after some time; he must have bumped into Grace before that, unaware that she’d be at the Derby, unaware of it all.

But to this day, you still couldn’t place your finger on what he’d done after he’d left—

_I love you._

Why had he mouthed that, when he knew you’d probably be leaving?

It wasn’t in Tommy’s nature to say things that would be redundant, so why did he choose to remind you then of his words from the night before?

It had plagued your mind for two years; these unanswered questions. You wondered if you’d finally get answers.

“Where’s—,” You began, but stopped yourself. You hadn’t said his name out loud since you’d left. Polly understood you, placing a hand on your shoulder.

“Come on, we’ll have some tea,”

-

“Wales?” You asked, your mug of tea untouched.

“He left yesterday, said he’d be back in three days time,” John added, plucking a cigarette from his packet. You held onto one of your own, but hadn’t lit it yet.

“How—,” You began, but you hadn’t spoken about Tommy in so long. It felt strange to suddenly be discussing him again, especially when he wasn’t here. You forced yourself to continue. “How has he been coping?” You let out. Polly’s eyebrows furrowed with worry.

“You knew Tommy once. How do _you_ think he’s coping?”

“Probably trying to act like nothing has changed, focusing on business,” You looked towards the family portrait of Grace, Tommy and Charlie to your left in the drawing room. “I’d bet he’s not staying in the house at night, either,”

Arthur grimaced. “Guess you still know him quite well, Y/N,”

You shot your stare towards him, a sudden rage bubbling beneath the surface of your skin. He looked to the ground as soon as your eyes met his.

“He keeps talking about legitimate business,” Michael spoke up, and you couldn’t help but scoff.

“That hasn’t changed,” You mumbled, bringing your unlit cigarette to your lips. You struck a match, bringing its flame to the end and lighting it. A question still burned within you, one that you needed answering. You turned to Polly, looking at her bluntly. “Why did you ask me to come here, Polly?”

She went rigid immediately, the smoke from her cigarette floating around her face. She took a drag before speaking.

“I don’t know,” She said, and you knew she was being truthful. Polly wasn’t one to lie about not knowing the answer to something, and this wasn’t an interrogation. She paused, blowing out some more smoke. “Why did _you_ decide to come?”

Her question took you aback. All eyes shot to you, and you felt your defence mechanisms working hard to keep you from being divulged.

Why had you come?

For them, or for Tommy?

You took a drag and exhaled slowly. “After I left, I realised what you had all done for me,” You began, and suddenly the words could flow easier. “I was grateful, I knew that from the beginning. But the job, the trust; I didn’t understand until later how out of character it was for you all to do such a thing; how much more dangerous it could have become,”

Everyone listened intently as you continued.

“I have no other intentions, no ulterior motive, about being here other than to offer you all support,” You spoke confidently, truthfully. It was the most open you’d been in a long time. “Though, perhaps it was also for selfish reasons,” You said suddenly, and Polly’s eyebrows furrowed. Arthur leant forward, and John stubbed out his cigarette. Michael stayed as still as one of the statues outside.

“For months, I believed you’d all still think of me as the girl who showed up in Birmingham with nothing. That you still thought of me as weak, especially after leaving so suddenly,” You let out a long breath. “I wanted you all to see how much I’ve changed,”

“Y/N—,” John began, but you raised a hand to quieten him. You sent him a smile so he wouldn’t be offended.

“It’s okay. I know how foolish it is to say it, but it’s true,” You took a drag, exhaling slowly and watching the smoke coil around you. “As soon as I got here, I immediately knew how idiotic it was of me to ever think that you’d all judge me like that,”

“Really idiotic,” Polly butt in. She exhaled smoke harshly, annoyance present on her face.

“I’m sorry for not saying goodbye,”

Finally, you’d said it. You’d apologised. The relief you felt was more than you’d ever imagined. But that didn’t change everything—

“But I’m not sorry for anything else,” Polly met your eye, waiting for you to keep talking. “I’m not here to forgive Tommy for the way he treated me, for the things he made me do when I didn’t know any better,”

You’d said your piece.

You took a few hasty cigarette drags, just waiting for someone to break the silence. You never expected it to be Polly— _scoffing_.

“Christ, you _have_ grown,” She said, a small smile plastered on her face. She glared at you intensely, but it didn’t frighten you anymore. None of it did. “You finally know your fucking worth,”

“And you wear _trousers_ now,” Arthur interjected. You looked at him, trying not to show your amusement.

“I didn’t realise my fashion choices would have such an impact on you, Arthur,” You sensed an ease in tension suddenly. The room didn’t feel as heavy.

“It doesn’t, I just—,” He sniffed uncomfortably, shifting in his chair. “It’s just _new_ ,”

“Why do you wear trousers now, anyway?” John spoke up. He eyed you with innocent curiosity, and you let out a small sigh.

“No one ever bothers the woman wearing trousers,”

It sounded much more light-hearted in your head, but as you spoke those words you saw the way everyone’s faces dropped.

You wondered if they felt guilty for ever letting you get involved with them, for ever unintentionally putting you in danger. You didn’t want them to feel guilty when they’d made it clear from the beginning that things _happened_ when it came to them.

You let out a long breath that turned into a yawn.

“Tired?” Polly chided.

“All that driving must have got to me,”

“I’ll show you to a room if you’d like?” Michael asked, and you nodded at him gratefully.

You tried to stomp down your desire to have a house tour immediately, knowing that it would exhaust you even more than you already were. It was a long journey, as well as a lot of talking—

_Too_ much talking, maybe.

You followed Michael up the winding staircase and down the hall. At a guess, you’d say there were about ten bedrooms, each one adorned with family portraits, landscapes and so forth. The walls were full to the brim with art; it both appealed to you and gave you a headache.

Michael opened a door to one of the rooms and let you step inside. You were pleased to see there weren’t any paintings on the wall at first appearance.

You stepped inside and placed your suitcase down, admiring the rest of the space.

You turned back towards the door; a fireplace was to its left; and on the wall above it—

“You painted that, didn’t you?” Michael asked, noticing your wide eyes.

Tommy’s portrait hung on the wall in front of you. It was a mixture of greys and blues and purples. All sharp lines and then one soft smile—

The portrait you’d painted.

“A long time ago,” You replied, looking away from it before you started to feel sick. You tried not to dwell on how the fuck you’d be able to look at Tommy _in person_ and not vomit at the influx of memories.

“I’ll leave you be. If you need me later, I’m two doors down,” Michael pointed to the right of the hallway. You smiled at him, your exhaustion beginning to take hold. He raised a hand to say goodbye, and clicked the door shut.

You sat on the end of the four-poster bed in the centre of the room, your eyes going back to the portrait. It looked different like this—like you hadn’t been the one to paint it.

You furrowed your eyebrows at it, scowling suddenly.

“You bastard,” You whispered.

_You fucking bastard, Tommy Shelby._


	4. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm two chapters ahead already lol. I'm enjoying writing this so much!! And thank you all for the influx of comments already!
> 
> Enjoy x

You awoke in the early hours of the morning. You hadn’t eaten dinner, nor had you expected to sleep for so long. The moon still shone high in the sky when you looked out the window, but you knew that it wouldn’t be long until dawn approached.

You tiptoed out of your room and down the hallway, headed for the winding staircase. As you did so, the moon shone upon the various artworks that Tommy and Grace had collected; their gold frames gleamed in the low light. The paintings themselves seemed to move upon their canvases, sending you scowls and hisses—

_Imposter._

_You don’t belong._

You passed them quickly and quietly. You had no idea why you’d decided to vacate your room, but you found yourself walking down a long, dark corridor. It was much colder down here, and a lot less lavish than the main house. This was no doubt the ‘servant’s quarter’ of the giant home.

You clicked open a door and found yourself in the kitchen. As if on cue, your stomach rumbled restlessly within your body. You grabbed at your nightclothes as if to tell it ‘shut the fuck up’. You wouldn’t know what to do if any of the others found you sneaking about the house late at night—

“Midnight snack?”

You stopped in your tracks, your stare immediately landing upon a figure sat the table—

“Michael,” You breathed out. You’d be lying if your heart hadn’t stopped beating just for a second. “Jesus—you scared me,” You allowed yourself a relieved smile, before making your way to the table.

“Sorry, I wasn’t expecting anyone else to be here,” He said, a slight chuckle present on his lips. You watched as he raised a cigarette to his lips, the orange glow illuminating his face in the moonlight.

You were struck by a memory—

Tommy’s office, the Birmingham moonlight, sitting opposite him in a large leather-bound chair—

The day he’d asked if you wanted to stay the night—

The day you’d refused him.

All of a sudden that sickness struck you. You swallowed forcefully, trying desperately to dispel the feeling. You bent over, clutching your stomach, intent on not throwing up in front of Polly’s son.

“Y/N? You alright?” Michael chided, and you heard him get up from his seat and begin towards you. You stuck out a hand immediately, and he halted.

“Fine. Just need some air,” You said, holding your breath. Michael made a B-line for a door that came off the kitchen. He unbolted it and opened it wide. Cold air hit you, calming you down significantly. You made your way to the door, sitting on the doorstep.

You felt the breeze float around you. It was pleasant, unlike the air that plagued Small Heath. It was free from industrial ash, solvents, smoke—

But not blood.

That would be caked on your skin wherever you went with the Shelby’s.

Michael sat next to you slowly, bringing his knees to his chest and continuing to smoke.

“Do you by any chance have another?” You asked, referring to his cigarette. Michael retrieved a packet from his pocket and held it out for you. You plucked one for yourself, sticking it between your teeth. Michael flicked open a zippo lighter, holding the flame out for you. “That’s one hell of a lighter,” You observed, lighting your cigarette and inhaling.

“Mum gave it to me,” He said. “Polly,” He added. You let out a scoff.

“It’s nice to hear you call her that,” You’d never heard him call her anything other that Polly. The two of you had only met three times in total, throughout the weeks before you’d left for London. “Does she still baby you?” You asked, and Michael went silent.

You looked at him quizzically, regretting your question. “Sorry—that was rude,”

“No, no. It wasn’t,” He replied, breathing smoke deep into his lungs. “Sometimes she does, in truth. Despite the last two years, I get the sense she still doesn’t believe me to be here, working, living—a _Shelby_ ,” You chuckled slightly, thinking fondly about the way Polly used to treat you.

“Those three months with her, I never understood how she always made me feel better, until I understood her motherly instincts,” You took a drag.

“She has them, alright. Thick and full,” Michael added.

“You’re twenty now, though?” Michael nodded, and you smiled. “You’re an adult, not a boy. I saw that the moment you opened the door,” You waited for his response, but he paused for half a minute.

“You still talk to me like back then,” You turned to look at him, only to find his stare was already stuck on you. You opened your mouth to speak, but shut it once more. “We’re basically the same age. It was just funny to me,”

“Why was it funny?” You asked hesitantly.

“Because even though you’ve changed a lot, too, we’ve both grown the same amount,”

“I’m sorry,” You paused. “It wasn’t my intention,” You stubbed out your cigarette, slightly embarrassed at your behaviour towards him.

It was first and foremost silly, to still treat him as you did two years ago. Back when his blonde hair was still that of a child’s, when Polly had him dressed in cardigans and suede suits. At some point in the past two years, he’d been introduced to what the Shelby’s actually did. He’d been made aware of the danger, the trauma, and the workings of the Peaky Blinders—

He’d had to have grown up fast being around all that.

You’d thought of him probably the same way that the Shelby’s had first thought of you when you’d entered the Garrison for the first time.

It wasn’t right.

“You’ve apologised enough for today,” Michael said, a smile present on his lips. He passed you another cigarette. “You don’t need to apologise for anything,” He stood, and you looked up at him from where you sat—

His jaw was sharp. His shoulders were broad. His face was kind, but two years of working for the Shelby’s had changed his demeaner—he was a _Shelby_. The same way that Polly was a Shelby—

More of one than you’d _ever_ be.

His brown eyes showed glimpses of green within as the moonlight hit his face, and suddenly you felt your face redden once more. You looked away first, fiddling with the cigarette he’d handed you.

“Here,” He said, his voice low and rough. You turned back, and where he’d been stood, he was now squatting—lighter out before you, the flame illuminating his face—just mere inches away from your own.

You leant into the flame, all the while his eyes didn’t move from your own.

He stood up once more, flicking his lighter shut and taking it to his pocket. You didn’t know what to say—but the silence wasn’t uncomfortable in the slightest.

“I like the look, by the way. The trousers suit you. You should get a suit,” He said it so confidently that you couldn’t help by turn away. You’d never expected Michael to be so forward in such a way. If John had said that, you would have hit him round the ear, but this was different—

It felt like he was trying to say something more.

You listened to his steps, walking back towards the main house. You took time over the cigarette he’d given you, not ready to go back to bed just yet. You held it in your hands firmly, inspecting the paper and the tobacco within—

They were gold brand cigarettes. He had good taste—

He was _grown._

-

“He has two fillies,” Polly said, walking with you around Tommy’s estate. You were approaching the stables. “He doesn’t race them anymore, just rides them for himself,”

“Someone I used to know back in Goring had a horse,” You began, as Polly and you entered the stables. “I used to ride her from time to time,”

“You should give Bess a ride,” Polly suggested, gesturing to Tommy’s white stallion. “He took Nina with him to Wales,”

You approached Bess strongly, placing your hands on her head gently. “She’s beautiful,” You spoke, and Polly chuffed.

“He’s always had a good eye,” You felt Polly’s stare on your back as she spoke. You turned to her, looking for a change of subject. You let out a breath.

“Michael’s grown up,” You blurted out, not knowing why your mind had gone to him.

After your encounter with him that morning, you hadn’t been able to sleep. You’d laid awake, trying to work out why he’d made you somewhat speechless.

“Yes, he has,” Polly replied, but there was something present within her voice. Her eyes flashed with playfulness.

“What?” You said suddenly, furrowing your brows back at her.

“Nothing whatsoever,” She spoke, but it was in that way that she did when she was amused—when she was being mischievous. She flashed you a smirk, and that’s when you recoiled.

“It’s _not_ like that, you _old bat_ ,” You spat, and Polly let out one loud chuckle of laughter.

“Old bat—I like that one,” You huffed uncomfortably, going back to giving Bess a scratch behind the ears. “Did you ever find someone?” Polly asked, and your heart stopped.

Short answer—no. You hadn’t found anyone.

When you left, a Shelby sized hole had been burned into your heart. It was impossible to fill. You’d had relations with one or two gentlemen, sure, but nothing major. Every time they’d tried to suggest becoming something more, you’d promptly shut them down.

_I’m not looking for anything_ —

_I don’t need you like that_ —

_No._

When you didn’t reply, Polly’s face turned into a frown. She approached you slowly, petting Bess alongside you.

“Do you still love him?”

You wouldn’t look at her. If you did, she’d see right through you. You’d never stopped to think about it all—did you still love Tommy Shelby? It had been two years, your life had changed, he’d moved on with his without you—

So, did you still love him?

_Do you?_

“Where are John and Arthur?” You asked, immediately changing the subject again. Polly caught on, and chose to go along with you.

“They have business,”

“ _Peaky_ business?” You asked, and Polly stepped away from you.

“That’s none of your concern,” She said sternly, and you finally turned to look at her. You knew a scowl was plastered on your face, but you couldn’t help it. Two years later and they were still doing everything that they’d done before—

Threatening, hurting, _murdering_ —

Maybe even more so, since the stakes were higher.

“Don’t you get _tired_ of it, Poll?”

“That’s _enough_ ,” She spoke harshly. Her cheeks had reddened, and her frame had gone rigid. You knew you’d stepped over some sort of line, but you felt unapologetic. You knew you were in the right. “ _You_ came back here on your free will. You came back here _knowing_ us through and through—,”

“ _Through and through_ —that’s fucking rich. Do you not know _me_ through and through, as well, Poll?” You spat, and her eyes flickered with rage.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“The _wedding invite_ , Polly. The _fucking_ wedding invite,” You clamped your jaw shut painfully, stopping yourself from shouting at the world—but that invite—that fucking invite—why the fuck had she sent it to you?

Polly stared at you intensely, and for a moment you thought you’d caught her out completely. You thought that she’d been caught red-handed, that you were finally calling her out for doing something so cruel and unnecessary.

“Well?” You shouted, but instead of getting a reaction, Polly simply turned on her heels and began pacing back to the house. “Real _fucking_ nice, Polly!” You yelled after her, but still she didn’t stop—she didn’t turn back.

You didn’t follow her.

You weren’t foolish enough to think that being back here would mean everything would go back to normal, especially not with the situation that the Shelby’s were currently in. Especially not with the fact that you were no longer the same person you once were.

You often dwelled on those moments where you’d transformed into someone else—

When you’d followed Tommy into danger more than once—

When you’d stood up to him when he’d accused you of being a spy—

When you’d screamed at him for treating you poorly—

When you’d _left._

You didn’t want to fight, but with the Shelby’s there was rarely _never_ a fight at the end of the line. Polly was the same as them, if not more so in favour of communication, even if it meant a family battle. She spoke her mind, she was rarely wrong and when she was, she would always own up to it.

You looked up to Polly the way a daughter looks up to her mother, but even mothers crossed the line at some point or other.

You looked at Bess, her white hair combed smoothly, her eyes huge and innocent looking. You wondered if you looked more innocent than the Shelby’s at first glance. You wondered if people could tell you apart from them. Or had you looked like one of them—all sharp edges, whispered threats and hearts full to the brim—

You didn’t want to look like one of them.

You didn’t.

Beyond Bess’s stable, you saw her saddle, handing from the wall. It wasn’t far to Small Heath—maybe ten miles. On horseback, that wouldn’t take long at all.

“What Tommy doesn’t know, won’t hurt him, right?” You said to Bess in a whisper. She huffed at you fondly, and you found yourself walking towards her saddle.

It had been years since you’d ridden, but it was like muscle memory. You secured the saddle onto Bess, strapping it firmly. Without hesitation, you hoisted yourself up onto her back, getting yourself comfortable for the ride.

“Ready?” You spoke to her softly, before pulling on the reins.

Bess began a trot, and you guided her out the front gates of Tommy’s estate—

Headed for Small Heath—

Maybe, you were headed for home.


	5. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just reread all of your comments on Painting it all Red, and honestly they made me so happy. I laughed so hard at a few of them!! My personal favourites are the ones that are just people screaming "FUCK OFF GRACE". Good to know I'm not the only one that disliked her in the show, as well. I didn't like her at all, her character from the beginning was someone untrustworthy, but obviously it is sad that she was killed in such a way. 
> 
> I wanted to post this filler chapter purely so I can post the MAIN EVENT tomorrow. I wrote it today and have read it back about 20 times trying to imagine it as a scene in the show. I think you guys will like the outcome of all that pent up anger over the past two years for both Tommy and reader lol...
> 
> I can't thank you guys enough for the constant support and validation you all give me. I don't want to disappoint you guys in the slightest and I'm sorry if I ever do-- I like to create an aura of reality within my reader insert works, simply because I CANNOT STAND when inserts have readers being so accepting of things. I like it when theres a sense of reality to the characters I create, even if their name is Y/N, lol. I also try and make characters as in character as possible, to the best of my ability. 
> 
> I thought I'd link below the song playlist I've been listening to on repeat throughout writing the entire fic, part one and part two. Music is a big part for me when it comes to getting in the mood to write and read, I need to feel immersed enough otherwise I end up hating the stuff I actually write. So here's the link to that playlist: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5tZjaue0N9LtJLcGRAoCe3?si=mTVDvtY3RLWAxVOW5PwCqw
> 
> See you all tomorrow, enjoy x

You got stared at everywhere you went around Small Heath, but you weren’t surprised. A woman riding a white stallion, trotting through Small Heath high-street, the common, the industrial parlour, Watery Lane—

It wasn’t exactly the _usual._

You dismounted when you stopped outside number twelve and fourteen at Watery Lane. You assumed Tommy might have sold the bookies, set on an upgrade to something more lavish, but the sign—Shelby Brothers LTD—was still up on the door.

You shot a glance through the windows, but the inside looked utterly deserted.

It was nothing more than a memory—a memento of what the Shelby’s used to be.

You’d never expected Tommy to keep buildings that he wasn’t using, especially ones that held so much trauma within the walls.

The countless clean ups after fights—

McCullen breaking in—

Tommy’s fear of clay kickers bursting through his wall at night—

And that was just when you’d been there. There was an array of other incidents that, no doubt, happened before and after your time in Birmingham. Tommy was the type to move on, to repress, to forget. You’d never thought about the fact that he might want to hold on to parts of the past.

There was nothing left here; they were just simple grey walls once more.

You mounted Bess once more, breathing in the musty Small Heath air. It smelled the same and stung your lungs in a familiar way. You found you didn’t hate it so much anymore.

You trotted away from Watery Lane, heading down the high-street towards the Garrison.

As you passed the industrial parlour, you spotted a group of three boys. They donned caps with suits to match. You eyed them with curiosity, and that’s when your stomach dropped—

“Finn?” You stuttered, directed at the middle of the three boys. You halted Bess, staring down at the boys, their hair cut short, their hats low over their heads.

Finn looked upwards at you, unrecognisable to the small twelve-year old you’d known before.

“Y/N?” He asked, his eyes scanned your face as if in shock. “What are you—why are you here?” He chided, and his buddies starting snickering like schoolboys.

“I—,” You began, but stopped, thinking of the right words. “Polly asked me to come. I’ve been here since yesterday,” Finn regarded you. “You weren’t at the house,”

“I stayed with mates last night,” He spoke, and the mates in question smiled at you awkwardly. “How long are you here for?”

“A week, at most,” You replied, but the look on Finn’s face told you he wanted to ask you more. You stayed silent, waiting for him to just say it.

“Have you seen Tommy yet?”

You fiddled with Bess’s reins, looking forward towards the Garrison.

“He’s not back yet,”

“Thought so,”

You tried not to scowl, but it was useless whenever you thought of _him_. Instead, you looked back towards Finn, your body steadily feeling warmer at the sight of him. He looked more like John than any of the other brothers. Kind eyes, an innocent smile. You prayed that he wouldn’t be ruined as he got older.

“It’s good to see you,” You said, truthfully. You smiled at him, and his cheeks flushed instantly.

“You too,” He grabbed his mates’ sleeves forcefully, shoving them forward before they started laughing at him. “See ya, Y/N,” Finn mumbled, fast walking away from you. You paused for a moment, watching the three of them pass by. Finn’s friends teased him as they continued up the road and you couldn’t help but let out a chuckle.

You continued towards the Garrison, feeling slightly more at ease after seeing Finn. He’d grown up a lot, from a boy to a young man.

You dismounted Bess, tying her to the outside of the pub, and that’s when your mood turned sour—

The stallions you’d painted years before—

Galloping, churning up dirt—

They were _gone._

The wall was Small Heath grey once more.

You should have guessed they wouldn’t still be there, but still you felt your throat close up slightly. He’d kept the portrait—somewhere inside you, you’d thought he would have kept the horses—

_Evidently, no._

You sniffed once, clamping your jaw shut as you looked at the gravelled street. Without another glance at the wall, you burst through the double doors of the Garrison.

You made your way to the bar, pulling a stool out to sit upon. Behind you, men stopped their conversations mid sentence, stopping to look at you as you plucked a cigarette from your packet and placed it between your teeth. You paid them no mind; you weren’t here for a reunion; you were here for a strong drink.

“Sorry, madam, I’ll be right with you,” A voice muttered from behind you. You watched as Harry cleared a table of empty glasses and made his way around behind the bar. You lit your cigarette as he dropped the glasses in the wash bucket, wiping his hands on his apron as he approached you. “What can I do you for?” He asked, his eyes meeting yours with his usual enthusiasm.

You smiled at him fondly, not responding to his question.

His smile dropped slowly, replaced by furrowed eyebrows and widened eyes.

“Well, _bloody_ hell,” He let out, and your smile widened.

“Hello, Harry,” You spoke, and he reciprocated your smile.

“What the bloody hell are you doing here?” He didn’t say it rudely, but with utter amazement. You thought about what to reply, but before you could answer he’d already began making you a drink. You watched him work, all the while a smile was still plastered on his face. He slid a full tumbler your way, smacking the bar excitedly. “Gin, if I remember right. On the house, too,”

“No, no, I insist,” You said, dropping a two-pound note on the bar in front of him. He looked at it, his eyes gleaming.

“Well, you’re _doing_ _well_ for yourself, then?” He took the note slowly, heading to the till.

“That’s just tips,” You said, shooting him a smirk. He looked at you gratefully, pocketing the note for himself.

“You here to see Tommy and the others?” He asked, but you didn’t reply. You took a sip of your drink silently, then a drag of your cigarette. You exhaled smoke. “They was all sad to see you go. Came in here after the Derby and went up to your flat and all,” He said, and you shot your stare to him.

“They did?” You asked, trying your best not to sound resentful.

“Yeah, came back down and said all your stuff was already gone, that you’d got on an earlier train,” Harry shot you a saddened look. “Tommy looked pretty shaken up,”

You stubbed out your cigarette quickly, choosing to down your drink in one. It stung as it cascaded down your throat, but you had to leave. It was no offence to Harry—he didn’t know what went down—but you couldn’t stay there any longer.

Besides, it was beginning to get dark. You needed to get back to the estate.

You needed to face Polly, eventually.

“Glad you’re doing well, Harry. I’ll be off,” You said, tucking in your bar stool.

“Come back if you’re ever in town again, yeah?” He stammered, as you made your way to the doors. You sent him a wave, but didn’t reply. You didn’t have the heart to say that this was probably the last time you’d ever come to Small Heath.

You felt worse than before on your way back to the estate. To your annoyance, the fact that Tommy had covered up the horses had made your blood boil. You’d done it for him, for his business. Everyone had adored those horses, even if they didn’t know who’d painted the mural in the first place.

You were tired of feeling anxious about seeing him again tomorrow. You were so _fucking_ tired of it all. Seeing everyone again had been blissful, but you couldn’t help but feel like it was all about to go wrong—as soon as you and Tommy were trapped together within four brick walls.

As you approached the drive, a thought struck you.

_Leave._

Leave?

_Leave, tonight._

Leave, tonight?

Could you really just _leave_ again? In the dead of night, without saying goodbye again? For a moment, you scowled at yourself. It was cowardice, weakness—but then you thought _rationally_ —

The things that he’d done to you, that he’d said, that he’d planted in your head; he’d still abandoned you. He’d left you, before you’d chosen to leave him.

You didn’t owe him the satisfaction of seeing you back here.

You didn’t owe him _shit._

You knew just how fragile Tommy was, and you couldn’t imagine what he’d be like after the death of Grace—but that didn’t mean you had to drop _everything_ and come to his aid. That didn’t mean you had to _forgive_ him, and that had _never_ been the plan.

As you approached the house, you’d decided.

Tonight, you’d speak to the others. You’d tell them you’re leaving.

If they got mad, that was up to them, but you were capable of making your own decisions. You weren’t under anyone’s thumb; you were your own person. What was the point in putting yourself under strain for nothing?

You trotted Bess back to the stables and dismounted. You took off her saddle and hung it back onto the wall. You approached her, giving her a scratch behind the ears. “Thank you for the ride,” You told her, and she huffed.

Your heart almost jumped out of your mouth when the loud neigh hit you—

You felt that adrenaline, that same buzz, as you rounded the corner to the other pen in the stables.

A black horse stood, shaking its head at you, its mane getting tangled. It neighed again, restless. It huffed at you.

“Nina?” You whispered, but seeing the horse wasn’t what was scaring you anymore. 

If Nina was back, then that could only mean one thing—

Tommy was _home_ —

_Early._


	6. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been having to stop myself from posting this chapter for hours!!! Now I finally can!!
> 
> This is my favourite chapter of the whole series so far, probably because I love writing dialogue more than anything else. That, and giving Tommy a taste of his own medicine is always good. 
> 
> Hope you're all well. Enjoy x

You went inside via the kitchen, all the while trying to ignore the way your heart was thumping uncomfortably in your body.

You wouldn’t exactly call it karma, but Tommy getting back early just as you’d decided to leave again didn’t strike you as a mere coincidence. Maybe it was a sign—maybe it was a punishment. Either way, you were about to find out.

You splashed your face with water in the kitchen, stomping down that sick feeling in your stomach as best as you could. You wouldn’t falter in front of Tommy, not like this, not after so long. You’d grown, you’d changed, and you wanted him to notice.

Tension floated in the air as you made your way to the main house. It was huge, and you had no clue where they’d be inside. The drawing room, the dining room, Tommy’s office? Maybe one of the other reception rooms?

You reached the main lobby; the house was utterly silent.

You swallowed uncomfortably, straightening yourself out. You forced your walls to build themselves up. “Polly?” You spoke, and your voice echoed throughout the house.

“They’re in the drawing room, Miss,” A voice spoke from behind you. Mary, the maid, stood at the top of the landing. You peered up at her, your face blank. You didn’t reply, but instead forced yourself to start moving towards the drawing room.

The corridor shadows covered you as you approached the door to the drawing room, stopping outside. The door was ajar, light pouring out onto the corridor floorboards beneath you. The breath hitched in the back of your throat when you heard his muffled voice—

“I didn’t send it,” Tommy said, and you knew what they were talking about; the wedding invitation.

“Then you know who did,” Polly replied, her voice stern.

You inhaled deeply, forcing your anxiety down into the depths of your body. Without hesitation, you pushed open the door, your vision flooding with the evening light.

All pairs of eyes, but one, fell to you.

“I went for a ride,” You said bluntly, and Polly furrowed her brows at you. John looked from you to Tommy and back again. Arthur’s stare was reserved for the floor. Michael looked directly at you, his face soft. Tommy stood by the large windows, showcasing the rolling fields of outer Birmingham. His back was turned to you.

“Come, Y/N. Have a drink,” Polly said. Her voice felt small.

“I’m fine here,” You replied, but there was a harsh edge to your words. Polly recoiled, adjusting her position on the sofa.

Just seeing the back of Tommy’s head was enough to make you feel sick, but there was something more mixed within—

_Anger._

Red, _red_ , rage.

Within you, somehow, you knew you wouldn’t choke.

“Are you going to look at me at all, Thomas, or will you be speaking with your back turned to the room?”

A cold breeze floated through the room as your words settled into the air. No one moved, no one spoke. Tommy tapped the glass of whiskey in his hands.

“I wasn’t aware I would be the one talking,” Slowly, he turned around—

Your eyes hit his. The same striking blue, the same sharp jaw, the same hollowed out cheekbones. Tommy Shelby stood before you, two years older—

_Broken._

_You didn’t feel sick at all._

“I thought I would be the one listening,” He continued. A sour taste appeared on your tongue.

“I wasn’t aware you could listen,” You approached the liquor shelf slowly, intent on pouring yourself a gin. “Perhaps you gained that skill over the past two years,”

“Perhaps you gained skills, as well,” You thought he was about to say your name, but he didn’t. You poured gin into a tumbler, putting the glass to your lips and gulping half of it down in one. Tommy looked at his own glass. “A higher tolerance to booze, maybe,”

You weren’t expecting to be quite this angry, but seeing his face again had only cemented all the things he’d done to you more.

He’d lead you on.

He’d manipulated you.

He was a villain.

“If I was here to drink, I would have stayed at the Garrison,” You spat, and you saw Tommy’s eyes flash. “You painted over my horses, Tommy,” Polly whipped her head to her nephew, her eyes glassy. “You covered them in grey,”

“All of you,” Tommy began, his voice cold. “Leave us,”

“ _No_ ,” You spoke up strongly. “They stay,”

“You don’t want to be alone with me?” Tommy said gently, but you knew that voice anywhere. The manipulating words of a gang leader— he was talking _down_ to you.

“I don’t think you’ll want to be alone with _me_ , Tommy,” You flashed him with fire, and noticed the slight bob of his Adams apple. You didn’t say anything more and waited for him to find a starting point. You wouldn’t be the one to _work_ , this time.

Tommy let out a long breath through his nose.

“Why did you come back?” He sounded almost bored.

“I’m not back,” You said bluntly. “I’m here because Polly wished me to be,”

“So, if _I’d_ asked, would you have come?” He flashed you a look. He was toying with you.

“You wouldn’t have asked,”

“How do you know that?” He was enjoying himself. You could tell. It simply made you angrier, not complacent. He was playing a game, a game that you’d never asked to be a part of.

“I refuse to play your game,”

“My game? Am I the quizmaster?” You stared at him bluntly, refusing to let him in.

“You’re the one asking all the questions,”

“And you’re the one answering,” He took a swig of his drink. “Well, _not_ answering. _Tiptoeing_ around,”

“You want me to be honest?” You asked. Something lethal was laced between your words. Tommy’s eyes flashed at your response. He paused, looking at his almost empty glass, before looking back to you.

“Yes, I do,” His voice had dropped to something softer, something quieter. You ignored the tennis table stares of the other Shelby’s; so did Tommy. “So, I’ll say it again. All of you, leave us,”

“Tommy—,” Polly began.

“Go,” He spoke over her. You didn’t tell them to stay this time round, but kept yourself standing strong. You watched as they disappeared through the drawing room door; it clicked behind them.

The room was eerily silent, bar the sound of each of you breathing. You were _seething_ —the angriest you’d been in the longest time. You never thought yourself to be a rage filled person, but Tommy had brought it out of you—all of them had.

Tommy began walking towards you, and inside you were screaming. You refused to move, your stubbornness forcing you to stay still. He reached the liquor shelf, and grabbed the whiskey, his shoulder grazing you as he did so. He poured himself a new glass, before grabbing the gin and filling up your own glass.

_Always the fucking gentleman._

“You don’t have to hold back, now,” He spoke. He said it like he’d done you a _favour_ , telling the others to leave you two alone. You refrained letting out a disgusted chuckle.

“I don’t need you handing me any favours,”

“Then what am I to give you?” His voice had changed subtly; you thought he sounded more comfortable. You didn’t want him to be comfortable around you.

“Nothing,”

“Then how will you come to forgive me?”

Your vision blurred with red. Suddenly, the glass in your hand weighed a tonne. Without hesitation, you flung it across the room. It hit the wall, smashing into a thousand crystals upon impact.

Tommy’s eyes widened at your behaviour; _finally_.

You noticed his stance, his stare, the way he breathed; it had changed in a flash.

Now he knew—you were not the you from two years ago.

You were not to be meddled with, stepped upon, controlled. You were not his. You did not belong to anyone. You _never_ would.

“I am not here to forgive you,” It came out coarsely, in a low, rough, whisper. Like you’d been possessed.

“Then what are you here for?” He whispered it back at you. You glared at him, refusing to leave his eye. He would listen. He would.

“For some sick reason,” You began. “I wanted to help you,”

“You wanted to _help_ _me_?” He asked, but it was as if he was trying to make himself understand your words. His voice turned sour. “Do you _think_ you’re fucking helping?”

“No,” You said, honestly. Tommy’s sourness only grew.

“I think you made it very clear the last time I saw you, that you didn’t want anything to do with me, Y/N,” His voice was slick like oil, sliding across the floorboards until it was under your feet, crawling up your body, infiltrating your veins.

_Last time he saw you_ —

It _hadn’t_ been at the Derby.

You’d pushed it to the back of your mind, intent on forgetting.

The last time you’d seen Tommy Shelby, he’d come to your place of work in London, two and a half weeks after the day of the Epsom Derby.

He’d waited till your shift was over and stopped you in the street, just past midnight—

_You’d pulled your father’s gun on him._

“I’m not afraid of you anymore,” You said. And for the first time, you _believed_ it. Looking at the man, stood in front of you, _didn’t_ scare you.

“You should be,” He said it like a siren song.

Before you could react, his hands were upon you—pushing you into the wall of the drawing room. He was trembling, but not from fear—

He was just as angry as you were.

“You must know how this looks,” He breathed out. “My _wife_ gets shot and killed, and _you_ turn up here for the first time in years, ready to _help_ ,” Every word stung your skin. Was he really implying what you thought? “How _exactly_ are you going to help me, Y/N?”

_He thought you’d come back to jump into bed with him._

In one swipe, you slapped Tommy clean around his jaw.

Your hand throbbed painfully as he stepped back, almost tripping over his feet in an attempt to steady himself from the blow.

When he looked back to you, a read handprint was already forming on the right of his face.

“You really think so little of me that you would _dare_ to insinuate such a thing,” Tommy stayed still. “You really think I would be so cruel as to do that to you— to _Grace!_ ” You were screaming now, full on without a filter. You knew that the others would be able to hear you from anywhere in the house—

And you _didn’t care_. 

“I _curse_ the day I met you, Thomas Shelby.” You approached him slowly, the way a lioness would stalk her prey. He stayed rigid, his breaths puffing heavily from his nose, the imprint of your hand fully on his face.

“You do not deserve to have _known_ me back then—

And you will n _ever_ know me now.”

Without another word, you stormed out of the drawing room. You couldn’t breathe properly, but the stinging of your palm had all but disappeared. You didn’t expect Tommy to follow—

“Grace sent the wedding invitation,” Tommy’s voice boomed across the lobby. You stopped in your tracks, immediately turning on your heels and pacing towards him. You stuck your finger into his chest forcibly.

“I don’t want to hear it,” You pushed him back, but he kept coming towards you.

“She found the business card you sent Polly—,”

“I _don’t_ want to hear it—,”

“You met her at the Derby, didn’t you?”

“Tom—,”

“That’s why you _left_ , isn’t it?”

“ _I don’t want to hear it!_ ”

“You don’t want to hear it, or you _can’t_ hear it—,”

“ _Shut the fuck up_ , Tommy—,”

“Because that _resentment_ you feel deep inside is for _one_ reason—the reason why you’re _fucking_ back here— _isn’t it!_ ”

“ _I loved you once!_ ” You screamed. Your voiced echoed through every room, every crack, every crevice of the mansion. “But I will _never_ love you again,” You breathed heavily, the silence of the house creeping back up on you both.

Hair fluttered over your eyeline, but you didn’t care enough to move it away.

“I’ve outgrown you,” You voice was steady. Tommy stayed silent, his breathing erratic. “You are nothing more than a coward who believes himself to be a king,” You had no idea where your words were coming from, but once you’d begun, you couldn’t stop.

“You sit alone in your castle waiting for someone to tell you that you’re _not_ the problem, when you _know_ you are. You treat your family like _slaves_ , you treated your wife like a _trophy_ and you treat _me_ like a toy—always around for your _enjoyment_ , your fun and games, until you decide to toss it aside like the rest of your ‘attachments’ _eventually_ ,”

You ignored the faces of Polly and the boys as they listened from the doorway to the dining room.

You’d gone too far to stop now.

“I’m here to help you because I’m the _only one_ that can tell you the truth without being afraid of getting shot in the heart,” Your voice was low and lethal. Tommy spat on the floor suddenly, taking a few steps towards you.

“You believe I _wouldn’t_ shoot you in the heart?” It sounded like a threat. 

“No,” You stepped towards him, so close that you could feel him breathing. 

“I don’t have a heart—," You whispered. 

You _stole_ it from me the day you said _you_ _loved me back_ ,”


	7. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so overwhelmed at you guys on the previous chapter. Thank you so much for the comments! I began this sequel only 5 days ago and have been astounded at the kudos, hits and comments its received since then. Thank you all so much!
> 
> Enjoy x

You weren’t used to crying, anymore. You weren’t used to the way it felt when your lungs and your throat and your gut stopped working—when the only thing that would work to feel relief was to simply let it all out—let the sobs take over your entire body.

You’d unbolted the front door and slammed it behind you, walking past the roundabout by the driveway, through the gates to the estate and down the winding road that lead you home—

_Real home._

London—Goring—

Wherever the fuck home actually was.

You only made it half-way down the drive before you had to stop, clutch your heart that was bombarding your ribs, kneel the ground and feel the gravel carve itself into your skin.

Skin that you’d believed to be thick, but had always been thin.

It was nightfall before you could breathe again. Sit up, stand up, without your limbs trembling at the weight of your body.

No one had come for you, but you hadn’t expected them to. You had wanted to be alone with this feeling—so that you’d understand how much you never wanted to feel it again—so that you’d never get yourself into the same mess from two years ago.

People had to learn how to self sooth, how to take care of themselves, without being dependant on another to the point of no return.

All this time, you thought you’d been self-soothing. You thought you’d had it under control, tied up so tightly with string that you’d never explode—

But you were more like a bottle of champagne.

If left unchecked, there was no telling when the cork would blow.

There was no telling when you would overflow.

As you walked back to the house, you wished you’d driven away immediately. Even if it meant cutting ties with all of the Shelby’s—Polly, John—all of them. Even if it meant that you didn’t exist to them.

You’d thought yourself to be a Peaky Blinder, once. They all had. 

They’d been wrong.

As you approached the house, you saw the lights on in the dining room and Tommy’s office. You went in through the front door, trying your best not to make noise. It didn’t make a difference.

“Y/N,” Polly was upon you immediately, her hands checking your face, your chest, your ribs. “Did he hurt you? Are you—,”

“Enough, Polly,” You managed, and she retreated from you, sending you a worried look.

“Just come and sit with us—,”

“I’m leaving,” You said plainly, and she stopped altogether. You pushed past her, headed for the winding staircase so you could grab your belongings.

As you passed the dining room, Michael shot out in front of you. He blocked your way, so much so that you almost bumped into him. “I’m not in the mood, Michael,” You tried to swerve around him, but he followed your movements, blocking you once more. “Michael—,” You said, shooting him a stare with ever growing anger.

It exhausted you.

You swerved again, and he did the same manoeuvre, blocking your path. You exploded.

“Just _stop!_ ” You screamed, but your voice cracked. It cracked and caved in on itself, your false confidence falling to the floor. You balled your fists and placed them on Michael’s chest, your stare dropping to the floor.

Michael placed a hand on the top of your back gently, bringing his other to one of your forearms. “Come on,” He spoke softly, leading you slowly into the dining room. Polly clicked the door shut behind you, as Michael guided you to one of the chairs at the table. Arthur sat alone.

“Where’s John?” You croaked out, ashamed at how small your voice sounded.

“Talking to Tommy,” Polly said, sitting opposite you. Michael took the chair next to you.

You stayed silent for a while, your eyes fixed on the same spot on the wall opposite you. Arthur and Polly kept exchanging worried looks at each other. You were aware of Michael sat next to you the entire time, though—

It wasn’t unpleasant to have him near.

Despite not wanting to talk about the argument, you had to know the truth. Had Tommy told you the truth about the invite? Had Grace truly sent it? To spite you, to get back at you for the conversation you’d had at the Derby, to get revenge on you for loving the same man as her?

“Polly,” You spoke finally, your voice stronger than before. You bobbed your head towards her, a frown plastered on both of your faces. “Was he telling the truth?” You let out, and Polly’s shoulders dropped.

“After what happened this morning, I didn’t leave to ignore you, Y/N,” She spoke softly, but she was walking on eggshells with the words she picked.

“Just say it,” You reassured her, and she took in a breath.

“I’d lost your business card not soon after you sent it, but not before writing down what was on it. When I went back to the house, I went through Grace’s desk,” She grimaced slightly, but you already knew what she was about to say. “It was in the top drawer,”

“No matter how much hate Tommy may hold inside about how things were left,” Arthur began, treading lightly around his words. “He wouldn’t have done that to ya,”

“I know,” You replied. “I know that,”

It went silent again. You jumped at the sound of a slamming door, the thump of footsteps coming over the lobby and towards the dining room. John entered the room, slamming the door behind him.

“That fucker—that absolute fucker—,” John muttered, not noticing you yet. “‘ _Tell her she’s not fucking leaving this house tonight, John. Tell her I don’t give a fuck if she can’t stand being under this roof, she’s not leaving yet, John.’_ He seriously thinks she’s gonna stick around after a stunt like that—,”

“John,” Polly interrupted. John scanned the room until his eyes hit your face. His shoulders immediately relaxed, his face dropping into something much softer.

“Y/N, right. Sorry—you weren’t supposed to—,”

“Tommy wants me to _stay_?” You said, your confusion at an all-time high. John shuffled into the seat next to Polly, fiddling with his cuffs.

“I told him you were gonna stay for a week, that was the plan. He said fine,”

“I don’t think you’re telling me the truth, John,” You spoke calmly. You looked at him softly. You knew he was just trying to protect you, but from his mumbles it was clear that wasn’t at all how it went down.

John swallowed.

“He doesn’t want you to leave without, at least, another private chat—,”

“Over my _dead fucking body_ —,” Polly interrupted, immediately standing up from her chair. Arthur got up after her, grabbing her arm. They began bickering like children, so much so that John got involved as well.

You sat, slumped, watching as they continued to fight. Only Michael stayed sat with you. Your eyes widened suddenly, at the feeling of his fingers wrapping around your own. You turned to look at him, his face utterly apologetic.

That’s when you realised what Michael was—

He thought he was an outsider, too.

He watched, he listened, he observed. He did as he was told, as he was instructed by Tommy, without a second thought. But his behaviour, his demeaner, his personality—it wasn’t like the rest of them.

He’d never killed.

“I’ll stay,” You spoke, and all heads shot to you. “That was the deal, right? So, I’ll stay,”

The three of them broke apart, going back to their seats as if nothing had happened.

“I can handle Tommy. It’s understandable—his wife took a bullet that was meant for him,” You explained. “I don’t want any of you involved in what’s going on between me and Tommy. I don’t want you to feel like you owe me anything when he’s your own flesh and blood,” You forced a smile at all of them. “There was bound to be a fight, it was just a matter of time and place,”

Polly reached across the table and squeezed your hand. You smiled at her, already feeling a lot more relieved.

“Let me do this, or—,” Your throat closed ever so slightly. You forced yourself to keep going. “Or I’m afraid I’ll leave and never come back, this time,”

Everyone bowed their heads in acceptance.

And that was it.

Despite how much you wanted to run, you wouldn’t do anything to show weakness. You were staying for _you_ —for closure—for some kind of attempt to be rid of what Tommy had plagued you with the past two years.

You laid in bed, wide awake, thinking of the last time you’d seen Tommy, back when he’d followed you to London—

_You trembled as you pointed the gun at his chest. “Stay the fuck away from me,”_

_“Please, listen—,”_

_“I don’t have to listen to_ anything _you have to say,”_

_“Then let_ me _listen to_ you _,” He spoke. You kept the gun pointed towards him. You were paralysed with fear, struck with that sickness, on the brink of vomiting in the street._

_You were_ so tired.

_“Go home, Tommy— go home to her.”_

He’d listened—

He’d left.


	8. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone, there will be no update tomorrow! I have a lot of university work and other responsibilities that need to take priority, so I gift you this long chapter in the meantime. 
> 
> Enjoy x

It wasn’t so much as awkward as it was unfamiliar. With all of the Shelby’s needing to work, you had most of the daytime free for yourself. The day after the fight, you watched the four of them drive off in a car, off to the centre of Birmingham for business.

That left you and Tommy in the house.

You weren’t concerned about staying with him. Despite the fight that Polly had put up to spend more time with you this week, Tommy refused his family a holiday. You’d be lying if you said you weren’t slightly pissed off. He’d lost his wife less than two weeks before, but he was still stampeding forward with business as usual.

You knew that it was a coping mechanism—a way to move forward and mourn. You’d never seen Tommy struck with grief until now, but you knew he wasn’t accustomed to it, even thought he’d been through a war.

In reality, it wasn’t just you and Tommy. He had a staff, running about the house after his every want and need, as well. Mary was the equivalent to an assistant, bringing him tea and whiskey whenever he asked. Paula was the nanny, looking after Charlie when Tommy was too occupied to do it himself.

You still hadn’t met him—Tommy’s son.

That was the first thing on your list to get out of the way.

You didn’t expect yourself to be resentful to him—he was just a child, Tommy and Grace’s child. You didn’t doubt him to be beautiful. You didn’t doubt that he would have his father’s striking blue eyes and his mother’s thin, Irish nose.

You spent your morning talking to Paula and Mary in the kitchen. They both made good conversation, and you thought it must have been a nice change to the usual bossy nature of their employer.

“I gave him under-brewed tea my first day here,” Mary spoke. She wasn’t a young woman, probably just beyond middle aged. Her hair was greying slightly, but her smile was warm. “That’s when I learned that he wouldn’t drink anything that wasn’t brewed for five minutes or more, with only so much as a splash of milk,”

“Strong tea for a cold man,” You replied. “Makes sense,” Mary regarded you for a moment, before she couldn’t stop herself from letting out a laugh. You saw Paula perk up to your left.

“How long have you known Mr. Shelby, then?” She asked innocently. You tried not to send her a scowl. Mary and Paula were in the dark when it came to you, obviously. Besides the scene they’d no doubt witnessed the day before, they had no idea your relation to the Shelby’s.

“Two years,” You said, trying to come off unbothered.

“Two years?” Paula questioned, raising her brows at you. “But you’re so young—and a businesswoman, as well!”

“A lot can happen in two years,” You said, bluntly. More bluntly than you’d meant to. Paula immediately retreated, her face dropping slightly. She was older than you by ten years or so, but still young at heart. You didn’t get any bad feelings from her. “How’s Charlie?” You changed the subject.

“He still calls for his mother, but Mr. Shelby is an excellent father,” She sent you a small smile. “You can come and feed him with me later, if you’d like?” You shook your head at her once.

“I’ll ask Tommy before I meet him,” You hadn’t seen him since arriving back at the house. As you’d gone up the stairs to your room, after talking to the others, you’d stopped on the landing. He was further down the hall, cradling Charlie to sleep in his arms through the doorway to the nursery at the end of the corridor.

He’d turned to you, utterly silent, Charlie almost fast asleep.

You’d regarded him sadly, before walking into your room and clicking the door shut.

You thought that now was as good a time as any to face Tommy again. You were in his home, with his family, his staff; you couldn’t simply pretend he didn’t exist. Besides, if you were ever going to gain some type of closure, you had to talk to him again sooner or later.

You wanted to meet his son, but you didn’t want to cross anymore lines than you already had last night.

When John had said that Tommy wanted you to stay, you hadn’t known what to think. The only option you could understand was that he’d understood your words—that he’d come to realise his nature.

But you also knew Tommy was stubborn.

You walked through the main house, headed for Tommy’s office. You hadn’t felt sick at all since you’d argued at him, poured words that had been stuck inside you for two years directly onto him. If anything, you thought some tension had been lifted after the fight. You weren’t tiptoeing around each-other’s thoughts anymore. It had been said, plain and frank, what you felt. And his supposed opinions of you had also been made clear—

_Whore._

_Lovesick, whore._

You walked through the drawing room to the adjoining door; Tommy’s office. It was shut, but you knew he was inside; you could smell the cigarette smoke.

You inhaled deeply, knocking on the door a few times.

“Enter,” Tommy said bluntly, and you ignored the small anxiety within in as you twisted the knob and entered the room.

He didn’t look up when you opened the door, continuing writing whatever business documents he had in front of him. You stood close the doorway, trying not to look at him too much. Instead, you occupied yourself with the room;

It was much grander than any of Tommy’s office spaces two years before, even after the small expansion of the company. A large mahogany desk sat in the centre of the space, in front of a large set of windows that allowed light to flood inside. The rolling fields of Birmingham were a backdrop. Shelves lined with books, trinkets, bottles of expensive alcohol, made up the entire left-hand wall. On the right was a set of drawers. Above it; a portrait of Grace.

You stared at the portrait, noticing her soft features and small nose. Her eyes gleamed within the oil paint; a small smile plastered upon her face. You didn’t deny that she was beautiful, or that she was taken too fast.

You harboured no ill will for her, despite her weaning her way back into Tommy’s heart before you had the chance to have him for yourself. Tommy loved her—there was nothing you could do about that.

But that invite—that was a low blow.

_The past is the past._

Tommy stopped writing, dropping his pen upon the desk. You looked to him, your chin raised high, your face devoid of any expression. He stared back at you for a moment, before picking up a small bell and ringing it twice.

Mary came rushing into the office in no time. “Tea,” Tommy demanded, and you almost scowled.

“Thank you, Mary,” You said. The least Tommy could do was be polite to his staff. Mary left the room once more, and Tommy’s eyes burned onto your face. He gestured for you to sit. You slowly made your way to one of the two chairs placed opposite his desk.

“I pay them, you know,” Tommy spoke.

“They’re good women,” You added.

“Most women are good,” He plucked a cigarette from his packet, placing it between his teeth. “Not all,” He struck a match, lighting it. You fought against the urge to ask him for one your own.

Silence trickled back into the room, but was promptly interrupted by Mary once more. She placed a tray of tea on Tommy’s desk, bringing a cup and saucer to each of you. “That’ll be all, Mary,” Mary bowed, taking her leave. “Tell Paula not to feed Charlie this morning. I’ll do it myself,” He added, and Mary left the room, clicking the door shut behind her.

Tommy poured himself some tea, not adding in any milk.

“How old is he?” You asked, trying to fill the silence. Tommy tapped his mug.

“Sixteen months,” Tommy said, and your heart dropped slightly.

A year and four months ago, you’d only been in London for eight months. You’d only just secured The Red Rose—that meant—

Tommy had got Grace pregnant before you’d even left Birmingham. In those weeks of distance, of absence, of abandonment—

Tommy had _fucked_ Grace.

“I see,” You said, trying to squash down the anger within you. You didn’t want another screaming session, you didn’t want your throat to feel so tight anymore. “The past is in the past,” You said, but you knew it was ironic. Tommy always spoke about moving forward, not backwards—

But he’d gone back to her. He’d gone back to her when he’d had you, as well.

He was a _hypocrite._

But then again—

So were _you_.

“No,” He said suddenly. “The past is not in the past,” He took another drag, stubbing out his cigarette. “Otherwise _you_ wouldn’t be here,”

“Otherwise _you_ wouldn’t have got her pregnant,” It came out before you could stop yourself. Tommy’s expression didn’t change.

“Yes,” He said, truthfully. You stood, going to pour yourself some tea. You went back to your seat, holding the mug in your lap, perhaps as some kind of shield.

You forced yourself to speak. “I don’t want to fight,”

“You’ve never wanted to fight,” He added, and you found yourself relaxing ever so slightly. “You had to fight being around us back then,” He said it like the words were a burden to him.

“How’re the Blinders?” You asked, genuinely curious of his men.

“Prospering,” He replied.

“And the business?” Tommy stared at you, a glint in his eye.

“Booming,” The words left his mouth with pride. You sipped at your tea, trying not to show how content you were at those words. “And you, Y/N. I heard you’re doing well,”

“You did?” You questioned, and Tommy nodded slightly.

“My men stationed down South told me about a speakeasy a few months ago. Said it was run by someone out of the gang rings down there,” You took in a sharp breath. “The Red Rose in Soho is your establishment, correct?”

The look on your face was enough of an answer for him.

“With men in London, are you planning an expansion?” You moved the subject away from yourself. He stubbed out his cigarette.

“I never thought you were the businesswoman type,” He changed the subject back. You knew that the more you tried to move away from yourself, Tommy would circle straight back. You took another sip of tea.

“You thought wrong, then, I suppose,” You spoke softly. You hadn’t expected Tommy’s stare to fall to his hands. You hadn’t expected him to look so—

_Ashamed._

Within a second, it was gone, replaced by the same old coldness that Tommy usually displayed.

“How is it in Soho?” He asked, and you had an inkling you knew where he was headed.

“Uneventful. My club has a strict policy on violence and harassment,”

“Even the Kinsmen abide by the rules, do they?” As soon as he said the name, you felt your heartrate accelerate.

Of course, he knew who they were.

You didn’t want to talk about the Kinsmen, you didn’t want to talk about yourself. You didn’t even want to talk about Tommy.

“Like I said,” You began, shuffling in your seat. “Uneventful.”

For a brief moment, your heart skipped a beat at the thought of the Kinsmen knowing you had some kind of relationship with the Shelby’s, the Blinders—

But how could they know?

You were unrecognisable from back then, and you doubted the Shelby’s had spoken about you in conversation to anyone after you’d left.

“I keep tabs on Joseph Kinsmen,” Tommy started again, and you prayed that he would stop. “He frequents The Red Rose a few times a week, I hear,” He plucked a cigarette from his packet, lighting it quickly and quietly.

You knew what this was—this was a business conversation. Tommy Shelby was roping you into conversation about _your_ business. You almost scoffed in your tea.

“I’m off work,” You said. “I try not to discuss business when I’m not actually working,”

“Oh, please, Y/N,” Tommy scoffed. “People like us are always working,” Your tongue tasted sour.

“People like _us_?” You said, a sarcastic smile on your face. “There is no _us_ , Tommy. We are not the same type of business owner,” His stare morphed into something darker.

“Are you allies with them? For protection? Immunisation?” His subtle way to wean you into divulging business information had fallen flat. Now—he was just straight asking. You found yourself laughing suddenly, too lost for words at his forwardness—it was almost childlike.

“You’ve got to be joking. _Thomas Shelby_ would never ask something so fucking clearly,”

“Well, I just did,” He said, no indication of a joke within his words. You raised your eyebrows at him. “Answer the question, Y/N,” He demanded, and you retreated slightly.

You stayed quiet—unmoving.

“The Kinsmen haven’t proven themselves to be trustworthy over the years I’ve come to know them. How do I know that you aren’t here gaining information to sell back to them?” He took a long drag from his cigarette, his voice as steady as anything. You couldn’t tell whether he was being serious or giving you a run for your money.

Either way, the ball was in your court.

“Do _you_ think I’m working with them, Tommy?”

He stared you down with those same intense eyes you’d always known.

“No,” He said, his voice low and coarse.

“Then why ask?”

He went silent. He flicked ash onto his desk, coughing.

“I can’t see through you, anymore,”

You found yourself smiling, but not because it was funny. When, before, Tommy could divulge your thoughts, your words, whether you were lying, with a single stare—

Now he _couldn’t._

He stood suddenly, stubbing his cigarette out and downing the rest of his tea. “Charlie,” Was all he said, making his way out of his office without so much of a glance at you.

You stayed seated, realising that the one thing you’d come to ask him about, you hadn’t actually managed to. You’d both got caught up in other things.

But you hadn’t fought.

And that was good.

You sensed his presence once more, and turned to look at him. He stood in the doorway, hands stuffed defensively in his pockets. “Do you want to meet him?” He spoke softly. You swallowed.

“Very much, yes,”

You followed Tommy up the stairs and down the hallway, headed for the nursery. You always stayed a few steps behind him, not wanting to overstep in anyway about this.

Tommy walked into the nursery, and as soon as his eyes hit his son—

They lit up like you’d never seen before.

The striking blue was that of the brightest sky, the calmest ocean, you had ever seen. The smile on his face was the most genuine you knew Tommy was capable of.

Charlie woke as Tommy picked him up from his cot, resting him snuggly on his forearm and draping him over the left side of his chest—by his heart—his beating, present heart.

Tommy muttered words of good morning to his baby boy, taking his small hand within his fingers and bobbing it up and down while Charlie let out a colossal yawn.

Tommy turned to you, his eyes still plastered on his son—his life.

“Charlie, this is Y/N,” You’d never heard such soft words spoken from Tommy. You’d never seen him so content, so open, so insanely vulnerable and soft. How the leader of the Peaky Blinders could go from cut-throat to cooing in mere seconds amazed you more than you’d thought it would. “She’s a friend,” Tommy added, and the breath hitched in the back your throat slightly. You dared not look at the Blinder.

You looked at Charlie—his big eyes were the most crystalline of blues, his nose echoed his mother’s, his cheeks were soft and blushing red—

“He’s beautiful, Tommy,” You whispered. Your throat began to close up slightly. You swallowed down the sudden pain that had just hit your lungs.

Tommy took a step towards you. Immediately you retreated. You knew he was about to place Charlie in your arms, but you just—

_Couldn’t._

_Not right now._

It was nothing against the child—he was simply a baby. But something about the entire situation had left you with a dry feeling. Butterflies ate away at your insides relentlessly. You needed to _get out_.

“Excuse me,” You said politely, before you rushed out of the nursery and down the hall to your room.

You shut the door behind you, immediately bringing your head to your hands.

You cried silently, unaware of why the tears were suddenly falling again, thick and fast.

You wept—

You _remembered._

You remembered what it felt like to be his.


	9. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I AM SO SORRY FOR THIS BEING SO TOTALLY LATE AND YOU ALL PROBABLY THOUGHT I WAS DEAD!
> 
> My motivation legit went WELP over the past few months, and my creativity was sucked dry. I'm so sorry to keep you all waiting and not telling you if I was going to continue or not, but I assure you I will try everything I can to do so. 
> 
> I hope you're all staying safe right now and thank you for the comments of concern and the continued kudos and hits while I've been MIA. I hope I continue to do this story justice with my writing and that I don't disappoint you guys either. 
> 
> Enjoy x

You felt like nothing more than a coward—a weakling—someone who was merely an illusion of someone strong.

His little hands—

His sparkling eyes—

His mother’s nose—

It was all too much suddenly. But that didn’t stop you from feeling like a failure.

You’d survived this long in Thomas Shelby’s mansion, only to be taken out by a fucking _baby._ All those sentimental feelings, the longing, the memories, the nostalgia, had caught up with you as soon as father and son had peered at you together; two sets of dark blue eyes, staring into your _soul._

You stared at Tommy’s portrait, trying not to burst into tears again. You were mentally kicking yourself, telling yourself to stop being a child, to grow up, to remember who the fuck you were; but your usual tactic of keeping poised and emotionless just wasn’t working this time round. You were stranded on your depressing island. You were stuck.

And what made it worse was that the rational part of yourself, inside, was snickering at the emotional part of you that was displayed outside. It stuck its heel into your stomach and laughed as you winced, whined, cried. It chuckled as you writhed in pain on the ground, as you stared at the painting of the man who’d both destroyed and built who you were today.

_Martin._ You thought. _I need to speak to Martin._

Without checking what you looked like, you raced out your room, headed for the phone in the kitchen. You needed one simple thing; his voice; to get you back down to Earth; to remind you of who you were; what you did; how you operated. You needed a friend.

You paced it down the corridor to the kitchen, almost crashing into the wall as you collided with the phone.

You dialled quickly and quietly, trying not to alert Paula or Mary, or even Tommy. You wanted to be alone. You wanted to talk to your friend.

The phone dialled twice, before it was picked up.

“Martin, you picked up,” You breathed down the line, and as you did so, your shoulders relaxed. You perked up. “Sorry for the impromptu call. I just wanted... to check up on things,” You smiled, letting out a few more pent up breaths.

“Well, Miss L/N, _things_ are about to change.”

Time slowed; your heart _stopped._

You knew that voice, that slimy, grotesque drone—

_Joseph Kinsmen._

You swallowed your fear back. You straightened yourself. You breathed in deeply.

“Mr Kinsmen.” Your voice was controlled as it left your mouth. You were _used_ to this kind of bullshit. “I apologise if this comes off as rude, but what the fuck are you doing using my phone?”

“Ha, you are a good little actress, you know. Always strong, always in charge,” He purred. “But you forgot one crucial detail, Miss L/N.”

“Oh? And what might that be?” Sweat began to dot upon your brow.

“You don’t piss off a Kinsmen and get away with it.” You didn’t reply. Words would have failed you if you’d tried. “You’re also a good bluff. All that shit about protection. Very well done, L/N. So, here’s what I suggest you do—,”

“Cut your little holiday short. Get your stupid, _whore_ arse back to London. And we can finally have that drink.”

_Whore._ God, men love that word, don’t they?

You bit back your nerves.

“And if I don’t?” Your legs began to shake. Joseph laughed on the other end of the line— a horrible cackle. You listened as sounds trickled through the phone; struggling; fighting; beating.

“Then your pal Martin isn’t going to fare well,”

You had to go. You _had_ to. There was no other option.

“I’ll be back in five hours.” You thought about hanging up the phone immediately. But you also thought about how you’d managed to sway him for this long. You’d scared him—no matter how miniscule or for what time span, you’d managed to scare Joseph Kinsmen with your words; your aura; your behaviour. “I’ll have a gin. With cucumber, not lemon.”

You could practically feel Joseph’s grin down the phone.

“Of course,”

You hung up the phone, your entire body buzzing with adrenaline—

That fucking buzz; that feeling of danger; one that you’d never felt until you’d followed Tommy that day.

It was all his fucking fault; how much you craved this feeling now. How much you wanted to go up against danger, face to face, eye to eye, the barrel of your father’s gun pressed firmly at its temple.

You tried to compose yourself as you walked back to your room and pack your belongings. But what you didn’t comprehend—

Was _Tommy_.

“You going somewhere?” He stopped you on the stair well, headed downstairs, suitcase in your hand. He stood on the landing, his eyes baring into you.

“Something’s come up at work,” You let out. You didn’t want to explain. You didn’t _have_ to. It was none of his business.

But you also didn’t want his help. It would create more damage than good if the Kinsmen ever found out that you were associated with the Shelby’s. It would make you more of a target. For yourself, you needed to do this on your own. You’d grown, you’d changed; you didn’t have any desire for Tommy’s help anymore.

You turned your back to the Blinder and continued down the stairs to the lobby.

He followed you, but was always a few steps behind.

“What sort of thing?” The curiosity in his voice was overrun by something else; something that you didn’t want to admit was there—

_Concern._

After all this time—these two years of no contact—only to fight horrendously the first time you see each other again—only to have him ask if you were working for another gang, against him—

He had _concern_ for you.

“Nothing that you’re entitled to know about,” You said sternly. Tommy let out a chuckle and your body tensed.

“You know, for a moment there...” He began, stepping towards you slowly. He approached you calmly, gently, until you faced him directly. He was close enough that you could feel his warmth, smell his cologne. It made your fingers twitch. “I could see through you again.”

You stomach dropped.

You forced yourself to scowl at him.

“It _doesn’t_ concern you,” You whispered, almost threateningly. “So, drop it.”

He shot you a frown, but didn’t press you. You saw his eyes flash with something, but didn’t stick around to figure out what it was. You paced it to the front door, opening it with a creak. You stopped, your back still turned to him.

“Tell Polly and the boys I’m sorry,” You swung the door closed before Tommy could answer, and began the long journey back to London—

You were going to save Martin.


	10. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Thanks for waiting again. Despite being notorious at multiple uploads a day, I doubt I'll be able to sustain that anymore. So every week/two weeks will be the upload schedule. I hope that's okay with all of you.
> 
> Thank you for the welcome back comments! It's lovely to still see familiar faces in my comments.
> 
> Enjoy x

When you arrived back in London, the lights to your flat were on. You parked at the back and went in that way, trying to steady your breathing as best as you could before you were face to face with Kinsmen.

You’d dealt with them for all this time already—you just needed to get through this, as well.

The only problem was, however, the fact that he’d caught on to your protection bluff. He was right; you didn’t _exactly_ have a plan.

What you’d set out, even before your club had become successful, was a letter that would be sent promptly to Polly if any such gang tried to force you into business with them. You’d never actually anticipated that you’d need to send it, nor had you thought about what would happen as soon as these gangs knew that you associated with the Shelby’s.

It was a last resort, truly. It was a final straw that would only be used if you were desperate.

As you walked up the stairs to your apartment, you were set upon getting out of this yourself. You were set upon getting yourself away from the Kinsmen in your own way—one where you could guarantee they wouldn’t be back to bother you, one where yourself and Martin would be safe afterwards.

How, though? You had no idea.

You were truly about to _wing_ it—

And you’d be lying if you said you weren’t terrified.

You walked the corridor to the living room, knowing from shadows on the floor that they would be in there. You forced yourself to stand tall, stick out your chin, act as nonchalant as you physically could. This wasn’t about you right now; this was about Martin.

Without hesitation, you burst through the door with confidence.

Martin was slumped in a chair, his hands and legs bound. Dried blood was caked beneath his nostrils and his lip was already beginning to swell. You looked him up and down as quickly as possible, before you turned to Joseph Kinsmen, leaning on the mantle.

He was dressed in a suit, obviously. His greasy hair was slicked back like always. When you caught his eye, he smiled; that slimy, disgusting smile; showing one gold incisor. You didn’t smile back.

“Where’s my gin?” You didn’t ask it; you demanded it. They were in your apartment, your space.

Joseph stood up straight, his eyes not leaving your own. “Steely as ever, Miss L/N.”

You threw your bag on the floor and shrugged off your jacket, chucking it at one of the two goons that Joseph had brought with him. “Hang that up, will you? I don’t want it getting wrinkled,”

“Miss L/N—,”

“Do I have to ask _again_ where my gin is?” You swivelled back to face Mr. Kinsmen, his expression noticeably dropping into something less than happy. He turned to his other goon, shooting him a stern look. The goon began making a gin at your small bar. “Finally,” You muttered, crossing your arms and trying everything not to crack.

You paced your own living room, trying not to stare at Martin still tied to the chair, his head drooped towards his lap. You straightened pillows and the coffee table books. You inspected the shelves for dust.

The goon came up behind you, holding the gin before you.

You went to take it, but stopped—

You had to stall. You had to think of a plan before discussions began. You had to figure out whether you’d have to use the Shelby card or not—

You _didn’t_ want to.

You really didn’t.

You didn’t even know if they’d come if you did.

You frowned at the gin silently, causing the goon to gulp nervously, before becoming over animated in an attempt to act unbothered.

“No—I changed my mind. I want lime instead of cucumber. I know I have some in the kitchen—,”

“ _Enough!_ ” Joseph exploded. His eyes were fire when he approached you, snatching the gin out of his henchman’s grasp and throwing the glass through the air. Glass hit brick, to the left of your face, and shattered upon impact.

You flinched—

Shards flew through the air in slow motion as you dared to look at Joseph’s stare—

He came up close to you, backing you up until you were trapped between him and the wall. His arms locked at both sides of your face, his body pressing into yours inappropriately. Never before had you had someone be this forceful, this upfront—

“You,” He growled. You tried desperately not to inhale his own breaths, but his nose was pressed to your cheek; his torso was thrust into your waist. “ _You_...” He repeated, lower this time, as if he’d finally stalked his prey. “You were supposed to be _easy_. New club in town, new business to join our ranks, new woman for me and my brothers to fight over who gets to fuck her first,”

You didn’t move a muscle. You didn’t even _breathe_ —

You’d dealt with drunkards, mobsters, murderers—

You’d been called a whore, slut, prostitute—

You’d been held at _gunpoint_ , strapped to a chair ready to _die_ —

_But this—_

This was the worst experience of your life.

“You’re an insufferable _whore_ , you know,” He let out, but your eyes darted to Martin in the chair. He strained painfully against his bonds, his head tilting upwards till his eyes met yours. Joseph turned to him, his jaw clenching.

“Don’t... touch her,” Martin let out, weakly. Your heart broke at the sight of him—the blood, the bruises, the pain on his face and inside. Joseph turned his gaze back to you, bringing his hand up to your face. He grabbed your cheeks forcefully, squishing until you were forced to look at him face to face.

“Is this romance? An at work love affair, perhaps?”

You refused to answer. You didn’t want to give Joseph the satisfaction of your denial, even though you and Martin knew there was nothing at all going on between you both.

Joseph stiffened as Martin’s chuckles filled the room—

He was _laughing._

_Real laughter._

“He’s a bit thick, isn’t he, Y/N?” Martin spoke.

Joseph moved like a cheetah, sprinting towards Martin like he was the gazelle up for capture.

“ _Stop!_ ” You screamed, just as Joseph’s fist was about to hit Martin’s jaw. “This is about my business— _me_. He is not involved. Leave him out.”

Kinsmen looked at you up and down; hungry. You held your head high as he straightened his blazer. He glanced at his watch; solid gold, no doubt; then back to you—

He smiled.

You felt sick.

“Let’s get to it then, shall we?” You nodded at his words, your eyes following him as he went and sat on your sofa. He patted the spot next to him, his stare never leaving your face.

You ignored your incessant heartbeat as you made your way to sit next to him, opting to sit as far away from him on the sofa as possible. He chuckled slimily as you placed your hands on your knees, waiting for him to talk.

“Don’t tell me you’re a _prude_ , now,” He let out, shuffling towards you until his thigh was flush against your own. His arm trailed around your shoulders.

You’d _seen_ this type of man— _heard_ of this type of man—but never before had you faced one this bad. You knew you had some kind of reputation; the single club owner, the mysterious lady with no husband, no family, who opened a bar in the middle of bustling Soho in her twenties—someone who _wasn’t_ a prostitute, god forbid.

You knew people wanted questions answered. Obviously, Joseph Kinsmen was one of those men.

And you had to deal with him, the same you would _any_ man that tried to advance on you like this—

_Send. Him. Packing._

“Do I look like a prude, Mr. Kinsmen?” You forced a smile his way. It would make the discussion easier if he thought you were into him, too. But you wouldn’t let it escalate further.

You drew a map in your head, towards the trunk in the corner of the living room, containing your father’s revolver—fully loaded. You hadn’t used it in two years.

“No—you look like a tease.” He eyed you up once more, taking in your clothes. “The trousers, the blouses, it’s like you’re trying not to give attention to your body.” You took a sharp intake of breath as his fingers began to roam to your waistband.

You placed your hand over his own, gently sliding his fingers away.

“There’s plenty of time for _that_ , Mr. Kinsmen. Perhaps, when my bar manager isn’t tied to a chair?” You gave him doe eyes—something that made you want to slap yourself in the face—but men were always so _simple_. They melted in your palm if you wanted them to, they cowered in fear when you threatened them.

“Business is always on your mind, huh?” He arched his disgusting brow at you, and you let out a fake chuckle, forcing yourself to place your hand on his chest. “When do you have any fun, Miss L/N?”

“Oh, I find time, Mr. Kinsmen.” He smiled at that, and your stomach dropped. “But this is not the time for fun. You’re here to talk business, are you not?”

“That I am, but first,” Joseph began, his face inching closer to yours. “This protection you mentioned before...” You swallowed, trying to keep your expression as blank as possible. “You’re a good bluff, you know.”

“You think I was bluffing?” You asked him, keeping your eyes wide and doe-like. You watched as his Adam’s apple bobbed uncomfortably. He didn’t reply, though, so you knew you had to keep talking. He was right, somewhat, but you had to keep up this illusion for as long as possible—

Otherwise. You were done for.

“I have connections,” You spoke.

_Connections that could get_ you _killed._

“Connections?” He asked, seriousness setting into his stare. “Who—,”

“Ah, ah, ah!” You spoke sweetly, placing your finger over Joseph’s lips. “Not until Martin is free. Then, we can talk.” Joseph clicked his fingers, and within a few seconds his goons had untied Martin from the chair. He slumped to the floor, the two of you watching as he fell and landed with a thump. Your heart shattered.

“Let me bandage him,” You said suddenly. Joseph’s grip on your shoulder tightened.

“He’s _fine_ —look, he’s still breathing,”

“Let me bandage him, before infection sets in,” You turned to Kinsmen, forcing your body to curve into his own. “The faster he’s bandaged up, the faster we can get back to _this_ ,” He liked the sound of that, letting his arm go lax as you rose from the sofa.

_Fucking idiot._

You made your way to the trunk in the corner, opening it slowly and making a show of shuffling through supplies. Your fingers gripped over the cold metal of your father’s gun. When your finger felt the trigger, your body fired with adrenaline—

That _buzz._

It was back.

It was if you were seeing Thomas Shelby enter the Garrison for the first time again. It was as if you were running through the streets of Birmingham with him again. It was as if he was kissing you in the moonlight again—

_Enough._

“Enough,” You spoke, rising from the floor and aiming your gun at Joseph’s skull.

He turned to you, his face dropping. He stayed sat as his goons looked on in awe, raising their arms to the sky—

They were _unarmed_ —

_Why the_ fuck _were they unarmed?_

You were so close to laughing as hard as you could. This was _comical._

“Left the guns at home, did you?” You stared at Joseph, your arms as stiff as your jaw. “You see, Mr. Kinsmen, you are just like the others. You undermine me because I’m young and a woman. You didn’t expect me to be someone who would ever use or own a gun, correct?”

He nodded slowly, his Adam’s apple bobbing once more.

“Typical,” You added, allowing yourself a small chuckle.

“I was still right, though,” He spoke up. You shot him a frown. “Protection. You don’t have it. You lied.”

You let his words sink in before you figured out what to reply. You couldn’t simply state that he was right; that would ruin the shield you’d put on.

You were your own protection—your own armour and army and bayonet. You didn’t need the Shelby’s, you didn’t need a family; you had yourself and your father’s revolver. You had yourself and your intelligence.

You were indestructible, indescribable—

_Alone._

_You didn’t need anyone._

You took in a deep breath—

“Actually, Mr. Kinsmen,”

Your heart stopped. Your body froze. Joseph’s stare flicked to the door instantly. “ _You’re_ wrong,”

That wasn’t your voice. You hadn’t just uttered those words—

But you knew who had.

“I suggest you and your men vacate the premises. We don’t want anyone to get hurt, do we?” His accent was thick and low; the same as it always was when he was trying to threaten people. You’d heard him talk like that countless times—he’d even spoken like that to you once or twice.

Joseph and his men didn’t waste their time. They left without so much as a glance backwards. They left you, gun still raised, arms still strong.

Your heart battered your ribcage, curdling your insides until you couldn’t feel anything but pins and needles in your entire body. You didn’t move a muscle, still frozen to your spot, your position—

That’s when you saw _red_ —

That’s when you pointed the gun at _him_ , instead.

He simply stared back, eyes as sunken and blue as you’d seen them only hours before.

You aimed your gun at Tommy Shelby for the second time in your life—

But this time, you weren’t afraid—

_You were angry._


	11. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! This chapter is a bit all over the place. Sometimes its angst, sometimes its comedic-- whatever. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy it!

“I thought you weren’t afraid of me anymore,” Tommy spoke calmly. You didn’t drop the gun.

“I told you not to get involved,” You tried so hard to keep your voice steady, but your anger was making your entire body vibrate. He’d followed you—

He’d ruined everything.

“ _I_ had it under control— _I_ was fixing it,”

“No,” Your finger twitched on the trigger at his bluntness.

“No?”

“They had men stationed outside. Two out front, one out back, all armed.”

You couldn’t believe what you were hearing. You didn’t _want_ to hear it.

“You were surrounded. They just made it seem like you had the upper hand. The Kinsmen don’t mess around, Y/N. They’re exactly like—,”

“You? _Exactly_ like you?”

He stopped, shooting you a frown. He was wearing the same clothes as this morning, just with his long coat thrown over the top. You’d been in such a rush you hadn’t even stopped to think about him following you.

You dropped your arm with the gun, clicking the safety on as it dangled by your side.

“Why did you follow me?” You asked him.

The two seconds before his reply felt like the past two years; long, disappointing, like you were trying to let go of something that you were holding onto for dear life. Tommy had a way with expressions that made him seem like stone; cold and rough and everything the opposite of what you knew him to be, in some instances.

“Instinct,” He replied, but it just made your blood boil further.

“Instinct— _fucking instinct_.” You raised your eyes to the ceiling, trying to calm yourself down. “Your instinct has just put me on the radar of every gang in London. Your instinct has compromised the safety of my club, my staff—,”

“Your safety was already hanging on by a fucking thread. They would have taken your business today if it weren’t for me—,”

“You didn’t have the _right!_ ” You screamed, the revolver dropping from your grasp. You wracked your hands through your hair, so tightly that you were close to ripping all of it out. “It wasn’t your decision to intervene, Tommy. You took that away from me,”

Tommy huffed defensively.

“Took _what_ from you? The possibility of you being _shot_ by the fucking Kinsmen?”

“The possibility of calling for you _myself_ ,” You said finally. You were seething, so angry at everything that you didn’t even think about telling him this secret. Tommy’s eyes only widened. “You were my _initial_ protection, Tommy. But a last resort— one that I wasn’t planning on using today, or _ever_ for that matter.”

Your chest inhaled and exhaled rapidly, your lungs trying desperately to gain enough air to calm yourself down. You’d just told him the one thing you hadn’t told anyone; that you were still willing to rely on the Shelby’s; that in putting that kind of trust in them, you still thought about them; they still lived within you.

Tommy stared at you in awe.

“What?” Tommy chided. It sounded like childish confusion—not just a question, but utter shock and concern and fear threaded within it.

“It doesn’t matter anymore. You’ve gone and done it,” You found yourself crouching to the floor, your hands instinctively coming up to hide your face. You hadn’t sat like this since you were a child, but in that moment, you almost wished you were one again—

Carefree, protected, free from the pain that your later life has caused you—

It sounded like a miracle.

It sounded like it was _fake_ —like you’d _never_ had that—because you hardly remembered what your life had been like before Birmingham; before the Shelby’s; before Tommy—

Before you’d grown into this person you didn’t recognise.

“You had me down as protection?” Tommy spoke, but it sounded like he was asking himself the question. You forced yourself to meet his eyes, uncovering your face from your hands. He was staring at the wall in front of him, speechless—

Tommy Shelby _never_ got speechless.

“Why?” He said finally, and his eyes met your own. You stared at him, unwavering.

“It _doesn’t_ matter—,”

“Yes, it does,” He interrupted. “It fucking _does_ matter. You—,” Tommy forced himself to stop. You’d never seen him like this, hesitant, indecisive, utterly lost for words. “You _hate_ me,”

_You hate me._

The words cut through your body like a knife through flesh.

Did Thomas Shelby _care?_

Did he give a shit about what _you_ thought about him?

Had he _ever?_

You were met with the strangest urge to reassure him, to tell him that you didn’t hate him. You imagined walking into the room currently, but instead of seeing yourself, you saw yourself from two years prior; wearing her fifth newly bought skirt, scars from knives and bruises and bullets present upon her legs, arms, face; looking at Thomas Shelby the way she’d looked at him back then;

Utterly in love.

A man that did wrong, but wouldn’t do _her_ wrong. 

_He did do you wrong._ You told her. _He let you go._

Then why did he come back?

Why did he follow you?

You swallowed down your thoughts. You stomped down your emotions. You pushed your past off a cliff—

“Get out of my house, Tommy,” You felt grim. Tommy stayed still.

“Why would you want _my_ help—?”

“Get out of my _fucking house_ , Tommy,” You repeated, standing as you yelled at him. You didn’t care. You wanted him gone. You wanted these thoughts to go away. They hadn’t properly plagued you for over two years—

They would _never_ plague you again.

Not on your watch.

Tommy stuck his hand in his pocket and retrieved his cigarettes. He placed one between his teeth and lit it. When the flames blew out, there was still some kind of fire in his eyes. He grabbed something from his inside pocket, blowing smoke out as he let it flutter to the coffee table.

“I meant to show this to you this morning,” He turned on his heels, headed from the door. “But you left before I could,”

You forced yourself to look at the paper—a ripped out newspaper article for the morning paper, dated today—

**_Webster painting recovered after 24 years missing._ **

****

You stared at the article, your entire body frozen.

“It was found in one of McCullen’s abandoned warehouses. Turns out the one you _fucked_ up, wasn’t really fucked up.”

It was put back on display in the V&A. It was a sham. It was a fake. It was _yours._

“Is this—some kind of joke?” You let out.

Tommy stopped in the doorway and turned to face you.

“Am I a man who jokes, Y/N?”

_No._

“Fuck,” Your vision wavered as the laughter began pouring from your lips. You felt insane, you felt crazy, but you had to laugh—

Two years later and you’d finally completed your contract with the Shelby’s.

Tommy met your eye, the hint of a smile upon his lips.

“That’s that, then,” You added. “My job is finished,”

“Well done,” Tommy said, but his voice was blunt.

You stared at each other in silence as the sun began to set over London. The rays cast a glow into the room, landing upon Tommy. You were struck with a memory—his portrait.

Two days of non-stop painting, all those hours alone together. Tommy’s jaw glowing in the sunshine, his eyes shining with every stroke of paint you put down on the canvas. The fact he’d got a haircut before, as well; he’d wanted to look _good._

He’d wanted to keep it, maybe not forever, but for a long time.

You found yourself scowling at him.

“You know, we’re going to be seeing a lot more of each other,” Tommy said, his voice was coarse; his eyes were glued to yours. He was right; Tommy Shelby had just shown himself to be associated with The Red Rose—with you.

He couldn’t pass up an opportunity like this, even though you wanted no part.

You had no choice.

“I guess the job isn’t finished, then,” You forced out.

“The job hasn’t even started, Y/N.” His voice was laced with sympathy. It made you feel sick.

“Don’t do that,” You said, your gaze moving to the floor. “Don’t _pity_ me. _I_ started this business by _myself_. I built it from the ground up and it’s booming—it’s fucking _successful._ _I’m_ fucking successful. So, don’t give me that tone over some boys playing cowboys with each other. I have dealt with boys like _you_ for the past two fucking years.”

You forced yourself to look up. Tommy had a smile plastered on his face. He nodded once.

“Yes, you have,” He said, simply. There was no malice or sarcasm within his voice, only truth. Cold, hard truth. It made you wonder if he often thought about how the Shelby’s had dug their nails into you; how they’d changed you—

How _he’d_ changed you.

You were reminded of the Garrison’s grand reopening; when he’d followed you outside; held you against the wall so _desperately_ because he’d wanted you to listen to him—

_I’m a bad man. But you’re a good woman._

It was then that you realised just how fucking crazy your life was. Half your family was dead, you’d worked for an infamous Birmingham gang, you’d started your own club—yet you were only twenty-two.

It was then that you realised that no matter the distance, no matter the shit that had happened and will continue to happen, the Shelby’s would always be a part of your life. Whether you wanted them to or not, they were around, they were a part of you—

So was Tommy.

Despite that love being betrayed, crushed, bruised, you knew that you’d have each other’s backs. You’d gone back after Grace’s demise. He’d come when you were in danger with the Kinsmen.

Maybe this was how it would always be?

_Two knots on the same piece of string._

“Not to change the subject...” Martin croaked from other side of the room, still slumped on the floor. “But if anyone was making a cup of tea, then I’d _love_ one,”

“Jesus— _Martin_ ,” You rushed over to him immediately, the thoughts of the Shelby’s disappearing from your mind completely. You crouched next to him, giving him support as the two of you stood up. You walked him over to the sofa and sat him down, clutching his hands in your own.

Tommy stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray on the coffee table and straightened his coat. You caught his eye once more.

“The boys and I will be down in two days,”

“The boys?” You chided.

“Arthur, John—some others. We’ve got to make our faces more known around here from now on,” You nodded at him once, not wanting to get into another argument. “Now,” Tommy caught eyes with Martin and coughed uncomfortably. You watched his eyes move over to your hand plastered in Martin’s own, and it _clicked_. “I’ll be off,”

With that, he turned on his heels and made for the door.

“Mr Shelby,” Martin spoke suddenly, making Tommy stop abruptly and turn to face him. Tommy’s cheeks were the tiniest bit flush. “I’m a homosexual,”

“Right,” Tommy spoke, but it came out as a choking noise. He left before you could say anything, too stunned at Martin’s statement. When you looked towards your friend, his smug smile was all the explanation you needed.

“You have _so much_ to tell me, Y/N,” Martin said, sending you a tired smirk.

“You’re _gay?_ ” You yelled, but laughter was already pouring from your mouth.

“Let’s begin with how the _fuck_ you know _Thomas_ fucking _Shelby_ ,”


	12. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long! I've been busy having no motivation to write. Oops.
> 
> Enjoy x

You took a drag from your fourth cigarette in twenty minutes, desperately trying to wrap your mind around what had just occurred in the last hour—

Joseph Kinsmen was worse than you’d thought.

Tommy Shelby had followed you.

Your forgery had been successful.

Martin was _gay_ —and that was the only revelation that you could understand.

You inhaled as deeply as you could before your lungs would cry out, and let the smoke out incredibly slowly. You just needed something to hold onto; to feel something that was real. The furthest thing away from something you could hold onto was cigarette smoke, yet here you were; clinging onto it for dear life as the rest of the evening events whipped past you like a bullet.

_How_ had this happened?

_How?_

You’d told Martin everything—not stopping to dwell too much on the past. Two years ago; leaving home; Birmingham; the Shelby’s—all of it.

Besides Tommy.

“Sounds like an incredible tale,” Martin said, his split skin finally bandaged up. He sat opposite you in the living room, puffing on a cigarette and sipping at straight vodka.

“I wish it was a tale. It was all real,” You said, your eyes plastered to the floor, cigarette dangling from your fingertips precariously.

“And what of Thomas Shelby?” Martin chided. You didn’t look up at him, knowing that the face that would meet yours would be smug. You forced yourself to straighten up, moving your gaze to the door behind Martin’s head.

“What of him?”

Martin stubbed out his cigarette frantically, his eyes widening. “Oh, _come on_ , Y/N. You really think I’m that inept?” He downed his vodka, standing up slowly and hesitantly, his bones creaking. He made his way to the bar. “Tommy Shelby and _you_. You and _Tommy Shelby_. There’s something there. It’s as obvious as the bruises on my face,” He poured himself another vodka then turned to you, leaning on the bar.

You took a long drag, keeping the smoke inside your lungs for a few seconds, before exhaling it out. It obscured your face from Martin, and that’s exactly what you wanted. You didn’t want to be having this conversation at all.

When you didn’t reply, Martin grabbed the bottle of gin from the bar and stumbled back to the sofas. He messily refilled your glass, his eyes never leaving your face.

“Ah. So, it was like _that_ , huh?” He said gravely, his smug smile dropping off his face completely.

“Like _what?_ ” You let out, but your voice sounded venomous. Martin noticed your tone immediately.

“This is just a guess, Y/N. But I reckon it’s somewhere along the lines of falling in love for the first time with a man like Tommy Shelby. He doesn’t hold things close that are dear to him, he pushes them away. He’s business orientated, he’s always busy with something or _somebody_ else, he’s dangerous,” You let Martin keep talking. “I also want to bet that who you are today is partly because of him. You push people away when they want to dig deeper, you never settle, you’re always in your own head in one form or the other,”

You almost choked on your cigarette smoke.

“Just a _guess_ , though, right?” You replied, but there was something reassuring about how easily Martin had summed everything up. You stubbed out your cigarette and took a gulp of gin. “It’s in the past, Martin. All of that is in the past,”

“I’m not so sure about that,” Martin said quizzically. “Did you see the way he looked at us when you held my hand? Why do you think I said I was gay?”

“You mean you’re _not_ gay?” You raised an eyebrow at him.

“Oh _no_ —I’m gay, alright,” Martin let out a laugh, swilling his drink with a smile. “I said it because I saw the way he looked at you,” Martin winked playfully. You let out a defensive huff.

“His wife was just killed, Martin. He has a son. That was two years ago,”

“That doesn’t mean something _can’t_ happen—,”

“That’s _enough_ ,” You boomed. Martin was taken aback, but only for a few seconds.

“Why’re you so defensive about this? If it really is in the past, why can’t you see it as light-hearted?” He scowled.

You scowled back, starting to see red.

“We have actual things to fucking worry about, like all this shit with the Kinsmen. The fact that the Shelby’s are now associates to my business means a lot more people trying to get to us, to the _club_ —,”

“ _Fuck the club_ , Y/N.” Martin said, and you physically froze. Martin’s demeaner changed immediately to something darker. “We have time later on to talk about the fucking club, when Tommy and his men are here. Right now, I want to talk about _you_.” You clenched your jaw.

“Well, I _don’t_.” You said, your teeth clamped shut.

“Then this is something you’re going to have to fucking deal with, Y/N.”

“What _something_ , Martin?” You were in a scowling match with him, neither of you wanting to give up.

“The fact that soon you’ll turn into exactly what _Thomas Shelby_ is,”

“And what the fuck is that?”

Martin took in a sharp breath, his eyes not leaving yours.

“Alone.” 

-

When Martin left for his room, you grabbed your coat and left the apartment. The Red Rose could run itself now, even without you or Martin around. When you passed the front doors, it was bustling like always. Lavish suits and glittering dresses. Rolex watches and Tiffany earrings.

You slalomed through crowds of people on the Soho streets, your destination utterly unknown. You wished you had a horse, that you could just _run_. Run and never stop. You couldn’t stay in Soho at this time of night, not being who you were. You were _known_ —and your name had just topped the list of every gang boss in a two miles radius.

You’d bet money on rumours already spreading, on old information cropping up from back in Birmingham. Especially with the timing of the Webster, if anyone found out that you were the forger, things would only get even more complicated.

You were already imagining the things they’d say—

Tommy’s _apprentice_.

Tommy’s _whore_.

Each one was worse than the other.

You hadn’t doubted yourself like this in over a year. Since your business had begun, since the numbers had sky-rocketed, since you’d found a _home_ , you hadn’t felt this _vulnerable_. You hadn’t felt this lost, mentally, emotionally—

Physically.

You stopped abruptly, taking in your surroundings. You were in a dimly lit park, the lights and music of Soho over a mile away for sure. You’d come down an alley to get here, but you didn’t know which one—

“Y/N?” You flinched, reaching for the switchblade you kept on your person at all times.

“Ada,” You let out, relief flooding through you.

Ada Shelby stood before you. Her fur coat was up to her neck, her hair was styled in small finger waves on her forehead. She smiled at your warmly, giving you a familiar feeling. You hadn’t seen her in so long. You’d almost forgotten that she lived in London.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” She said, chipper and in control as ever.

“I suppose I sort of have,” You began, sending her furrowed brows. Her expression immediately changed.

“Polly told me you went back Birmingham,” She said gently, looking you up and down with a new sense of maturity towards you. “I live around the corner. Tea?”

Sitting inside Ada’s house felt strange. You’d never been, despite knowing that she lived in London. You hadn’t had any incentive to ever contact her after you’d left Birmingham. Why would you? If you wouldn’t even contact Polly or John either?   
  


She poured tea for the both of you. It was a China tea set— expensive, shiny. Something that Tommy had bought her as a welcome gift, probably.   
  


You both sipped tea in silence, the clink of cups against saucers the only source of noise inside the living room.  
  


Ada placed her saucer down, crossing her legs.  
  


“Come on. Spill it,” She let out. You gulped down more tea, surprised.  
  


“Excuse me?” You furrowed your brows at her.  
  


“I wouldn’t expect you to ever look that startled about anything, even before I turned up and scared you,”  
  


“You didn’t scare me,”  
  


“Something else did, then,” She raised her brow. She looked just like John when she did that. It made you feel a tad sick.  
  


You let out a deep breath. For some reason, telling Ada things had come naturally at the Garrison that one night. She’d seen right through your glances and stares. She knew there was something going on with Tommy back then.   
  


The thought of telling her all that had happened over the past four days wasn’t as appealing. It concerned her family.   
  


“I don’t care if it’s about my family,” She said, reading your mind. “You know I try not to associate with them. I have an outside perspective,”  
  


“A very close outside perspective,” You whispered. Ada only smiled. She brought her hand over to your knee.  
  


“Believe me. Anything to do with them needs to be let out. Don’t do what Tommy does and keep everything inside,”  
  


Keep everything inside.   
  


He did do that, didn’t he? All the fucking time.  
  


Tommy Shelby was so full of secrets it’s a wonder he didn’t burst.  
  


You told her everything— everything. Returning to Birmingham. The wedding invitation. The protection you’d arranged. The ordeal at Tommy’s mansion. The Kinsmen. Martin. Everything.  
  


Ada sat quietly as you spilled your guts. She nodded when she needed to. She smiled and chuffed and frowned as well. When you were finished, she had a faint smile on her lips.  
  


“Well,” She said, letting out a pent up breath. “Someone needed to slap him round the face eventually,” You let out a laugh that couldn’t be contained, and with it came most of the anxiety you’d been feeling before.   
  


“It’s a mess, Ada,”  
  


“When is it ever not a mess with Tommy? You should know what that’s like more than most, Y/N,”   
  


You found yourself thinking about what to say next, but only one thing came to mind. Something you had been determined not to ask since you’d gone off on your own.  
  


“What do I do, Ada? What the fuck am I supposed to do now?”   
  


“You do what everyone does. Go along with it,”   
  


“Go along with it?” You frowned at her.  
  


“Look, you may not have the best opinion of my brother. Hell, even I don’t. But has he ever lost?”  
  


Had he lost? He he ever lost?  
  


“Yes,” You said without hesitation. “He lost me,”  
  


Ada looked at you sympathetically. Her thumb circled your knee affectionately.  
  


“You went back, Y/N.”  
  


You went back.   
  


“And he came after you.”   
  


He followed you.   
  


He did, didn’t he?   
  


Tommy Shelby, two years older, two years wiser— or two years more poisonous— he followed you.  
  


He came back—

Maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing.


	13. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! I'm back on the bandwagon with this now. Aren't you lucky?
> 
> I can't thank you enough for the constant support I receive, even after not posting for so long. I've had people commenting saying that this is the best fic they've ever read, that they love it beyond belief, and I am honestly awestruck. Having so many of you comment upon how my writing has developed over the past few months is so special to me and an awfully big help towards my attitude about my own writing. I publish anonymously (not just because it's a reader insert and I'm a bit wary of how some people respond to that sort of thing) because I often doubt my ability at story telling and writing. I'm slowly getting over this and it's all thanks to you all. 
> 
> Here's the link to my 'painting it all red' series playlist- these are the songs that I listen to when I write. They're the songs that, in my opinion, tell different aspects of the story. Listen if you'd like to feel closer to the writing, or if you just want new music!  
> https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5tZjaue0N9LtJLcGRAoCe3?si=ppwPQRkjSQ-Q_Wdj5szJkw
> 
> Thank you. Enjoy x
> 
> TW: PANIC ATTACKS AND PTSD !!

You woke with a start—sweat lined your brow. You were in Ada’s living room, the sun peaking through the curtains indicating early morning.

You’d stayed the night. Without meaning to.

“Martin—,” You whispered to yourself, shooting up so fast you got head rush. You folded the blanket that Ada had draped over you, no doubt when you’d fallen asleep, and left her house immediately.

Your hands fumbled as you slotted your key in the lock of The Red Rose. For some reason, you couldn’t stop shaking. You hadn’t felt this unstable and vulnerable—this anxious—in a very long time. You slammed the door shut and had to just _stop._

Breathe. _Breathe._

In through your nose, out through your mouth, three times over.

Your knees were the first thing to buckle, hitting the floor of the bar with a thud. You clutched your hand over your heart—it rattled within you with no remorse, no sense of ever stopping its incessant beating.

Sometimes you wanted it to stop. Just stop.

You knew what this was—you’d felt it before many times. When you felt the sweat pooling in your pores, when all you could focus on was the way your entire body throbbed with adrenaline, not the good kind.

A panic attack. You were having a panic attack.

You shut your eyes when your vision began to swirl. All it did was make you feel sick. Images hit you like a ten-tonne truck before you could stop them—

_“Grace sent the invitation.”_

_“The past is not the past.”_

_“I love her. But I also love_ you _, very much.”_

“Get out of my head—,” You croaked. You held your head in your hands as you tried desperately to stop yourself from remembering— _nothing_ worked.

Tommy Shelby was still there, engrained, solid as concrete, as solid as the first day he strolled into the Garrison and stubbed out his cigarette.

_“How do I know I can trust you?”_

“Get the _fuck_ out of my head!” You screamed. Tears poured from your eyes as your three months in Birmingham hit you like a falling piano. Every ivory key was another memory—another moment with _him—_

Ones where he noticed you—

Was affectionate with you—

Trusted you, laughed with you, _loved_ you—

_Deceived_ you—

Left you. For her.

“Y/N?” Martin’s voice brought you back to your senses, but the damage was already done. You bombarded into him as he crouched to your level, utterly unashamed of your tears and your body and your emotions.

“I _can’t_ do it—I can’t,” You stuttered out. “I thought I could, I _really_ did,” You forced yourself to look Martin in the eye, despite yours overflowing. “Going back to Birmingham felt good—like _home_ , even—but this,” You paused to let out a sob. “He _wasn’t_ meant to be here. He _wasn’t_ meant to be here _ever_ ,”

Martin knew who you meant; he knew you meant Tommy Shelby.

“What did he _do_ to you, Y/N?” Martin asked, his face a picture of concern, despite all his bruises.

What _hadn’t_ he done to you, was the real question to ask.

It hit you in that moment that, despite your success, your new life, your work ethic, _you_ —

You had never once _mourned_ over how things had ended. You had never once spoken freely without being reduced to rage, or tears—you had _never_ told anyone the entire story.

Only you and Tommy knew that.

It was _eating you alive—_

It had been for _two years_.

All that determination had been spent on pushing it down, repressing it so all that fucking shit would never surround you once more—

Little did you know that repression didn’t get rid of a problem, it simply covered it in dust—

Dust could be disturbed, and when is was it was like you’d never been without that trauma from the very beginning.

Your lip quivered as you forced a small smile at Martin.

“He hurt me.”

-

Another day passed quicker than you’d wanted it to. It was crunch time—

Tommy and the boys were coming today.

Martin had been particularly fragile with you ever since he’d come across you having a panic attack. He’d always known there was a side of you that wasn’t the strong-willed club host; it was the opposite. He hadn’t known to what extent until you’d sobbed in his arms.

You also saw the way his face changed as time got closer to when Tommy would be arriving. You had a feeling his opinion of the Blinder had been lowered after you’d revealed more than you should have.

After your outburst, you’d been close to punching yourself in the face.

_I mean, it’s pathetic, isn’t it?_ You thought. Why did you still feel like this about him? Time had passed; you’d grown and somewhat moved on.

It was just a stupid first love. It didn’t mean anything.

“You’re full of shit,” Martin had said. “It obviously means something. This isn’t something that is easily brushed under the carpet and forgotten about, Y/N. You have to allow yourself to grieve,”

“It’s two years too late to grieve,” You’d replied, suddenly embarrassed about being so vulnerable.

“There’s no wrong time to grieve. Let those feelings go, Y/N. Stop harbouring them,”

_What if I can’t?_ is what you’d wanted to say.

“Okay,” You said.

You’d told yourself over and over again that you knew your worth, your strength, your beauty, but when you’d seen Tommy again it was like you’d travelled back in time—two years earlier, two years less wise. It had all drifted away from you.

Not today. Not _ever_ again.

You’d said so many times how one day Tommy would get a taste of his own medicine, but never once had you allowed yourself to think of _yourself_ as the person who would _serve_ him it—

This time, you _would._

_Oh_ , you would.

Maybe it was petty, or idiotic, or incredibly stupid and insensitive—

But Tommy hadn’t given a _fuck_ about all that with you before—

_So, why should you with him?_

“They’re here,” One of your staff huffed breathlessly, before running back inside. You were out back, finishing up a cigarette. You always dressed up for the evening; you had an image to uphold; but that image had changed slightly.

You weren’t wearing trousers today—instead you donned a _red dress_.

Silk and long, it hugged your figure and extended your legs. When it hit the light, it glittered. It was long sleeved, low cut, form fitting—

Perhaps a bit promiscuous, but who gave a fuck?

Little did Tommy Shelby know, but this dress was for _him_.

It was for him; to remind him about what he’d lost, what he’d cast aside.

It was for him; to show him who was boss in this situation, to make him scared of stepping on your toes and delving too deep with you once more.

It was for him;

To tell him to _fuck right off._

You entered the main bar and flung your arms open, smiling widely and confidently with the elegance of a Charleston dancer and the slyness of an assassin.

“Boys!”

Tommy, John, Arthur and four of their men couldn’t take their eyes off of you—

They were awestruck, perhaps even mesmerised.

You saw Tommy _gulp_ , you saw him forcing himself not to give you a once over; the others weren’t as strong or just didn’t seem to care about whether to ogle you or not.

You placed your hands on your hips, feeling the atmosphere wash over you—

This was your domain, your space, your world. They were simply guests. Guests that could be shoved out.

You caught Tommy’s eyes for a second, just as he’d given up his fight not to look at you. You smiled devilishly at them all.

“Welcome to the Red Rose.”


	14. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unlucky chapter thirteen, here we go!

You tried to ignore the stares the Shelby’s were getting as you made your way behind the bar. You tried not to scowl as you mixed drinks, all the while your gaze still stuck on them. They’d settled in one of the booths against the wall, right next to one of the many murals and canvases you’d painted specially for your club.

John and Arthur were positively glowing, peering around the club like school-boys; excited, ready. Tommy was silent and observant, the same way he’d always been. He sparked his lighter and lit a cigarette, eyes gazing up at your paintings.

You wondered if he’d recognise your work after so long.

You balanced their drinks on a tray and strolled over to their booth, as smooth as ever. Everywhere you went, people stared. They gawked, they whispered. Some women smiled, some didn’t. Some men stared; others drooled.

Truthfully, you hated it.

Being the centre of attention had never been very high up on your list of wants, but the job came with it. It was a price you had to pay for your success. Half of your customers came to the Red Rose because of you; the mysterious owner who no one knew, who wasn’t part of a gang, a _woman_.

They stayed for the club, though.

The music, the dancing, the drinks—the fun. That’s what it was all about.

Would having the Shelby’s around threaten that?

You placed the tray on the table and took a seat next to John, crossing your legs bluntly. You grabbed a cigarette from his pack and placed it between your lips—

Three of Tommy’s men let their lighters for you without hesitation. You refused them all.

“Those are on the house. The next round will not be,” You spoke without hesitation.

Tommy lit his lighter, the same as his men had. You stared at him blankly, before plucking the lighter from his hands and lighting the end of your cigarette yourself. You slid the lighter back to his side of the booth.

John nudged you playfully. “When you said club, I never thought you meant _this,_ ” John gestured to the building, his smile utterly genuine. “I am amazed, Y/N,”

“Thank you,” You said, relaxing into the conversation now.

“You must make a killing,” Arthur chimed in, sending you a smirk.

“Let’s have a drink before we start talking business, shall we?” Tommy interrupted, raising his glass. His men followed suit, but you stayed put.

“What exactly are we toasting to, Mr. Shelby?” You said. Tommy’s eyes flashed as you refused to say his first name. Maybe he was reminded of back at the Garrison—when you’d accidentally called him Tommy. He’d exploded— _That’s Mr. Shelby to you._

“To good fortune,” He replied, steely as ever. “To the past,”

“The past?” You glared at him. “This is not the past, Mr. Shelby,”

“No, it’s not. It’s a goodbye,”

You wanted to yell that that’s not what he’d said back at his house.

_The past is not in the past,_ that’s exactly what he’d said. It went against everything that he stood for, everything that Shelby Brothers LTD had strived for after finally becoming a legitimate business.

It was a lie, evidently.

Tommy Shelby was still, somewhat, living in the past—

Or craving it.

You finally raised your glass. “Goodbye to the past,” You said and before anyone else could add to your words, you clinked your glass against Tommy’s, downing its contents in one gulp afterwards. “Now, we can talk business,”

Talking with Tommy about business was something you weren’t used to. In some senses, it helped remind you what kind of man he was. He was a Peaky Blinder, their fearless leader. He was the man you’d always known he was, but finally up close. You weren’t inclined to look the other way anymore. You didn’t want to.

“We’ll put men on front and back every evening, on the lookout for any trouble. You’ll have one stationed outside the door to the apartment every night, too—,”

“Outside my home? Seriously?”

Tommy looked you dead in the eyes.

“Do you _know_ who the Kinsmen are, Y/N?” Tommy said, blunt. You felt your cheeks flush and the rest of the table fall silent.

“Do I look like a fucking _idiot_ to you, Thomas?”

“You don’t look like one, you just _sound_ like one,” He replied, and you saw _red._ You’d been mad at Tommy before, god, you had. But this was different. You’d always end up screaming or crying or running before—you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction this time.

“Shelby Brothers LTD have only been operating in London for the last ten months. I have been here over a year. I have lived here, worked here, built my business from the ground up here, since before you and your _business_ even decided to branch out to this fucking city,” You didn’t take your eyes off Tommy. You wanted to make him squirm, make him uncomfortable, make him seem inadequate in front of his own men and brothers. “Joseph Kinsmen has stalked me and harassed me for far longer than you have been involved here, _Mr. Shelby_ , so I suggest you stop talking to me like I don’t have the power and authority to have you thrown out of my establishment forever,”

You could have stopped there, but you didn’t want to. You stood slowly, making your way round to Tommy’s side of the booth. You leaned on the table, popping your hip out and sending him a glare.

“You are here only because I allowed it. That can be taken away. Don’t make me throw you out of my life for the second time, Mr. Shelby—because I’d do it faster than you could shoot me with your revolver,”

He was silent. Utterly silent.

“When you are ready to discuss matters without the need to belittle me, then I’ll gladly talk. For now, I want to mingle with my guests. Excuse me,” You stood, straightening out your dress and grabbing a cigarette from Tommy’s pack. You lit it with his lighter, sucking in smoke as you walked away from their table.

_That’s right, Tommy._

_You will not treat me like dirt anymore._

For the first time since you’d met Thomas Shelby, you found yourself _pitying_ him. Not because of the war, or because of his late wife, but because of his coldness.

You doubted that he often got to feel close to people, anymore.

You doubted that he’d even felt anything being with you.

Maybe you had simply been someone to remind him of how life had used to be. Maybe you had shown him too much of what he was missing—

Maybe that’s why he’d turned you into another form of himself.

An hour had passed by the time John approached you at the bar. You were still fond of him; you always had been. He was kind, boyish—he made a conscious effort when it came to seeing the best in people.

“Another drink?” You asked.

“No, no—I mean, yes, but—that’s not why I came over.” He fumbled with his words the same way a boy would in school. It was endearing. It made you think about whether or not he wanted this life.

“Go on,” You said, gently. He sent you a smile. It warmed you.

“I’m just—in awe. I know I said it earlier but really. This is amazing, Y/N. All that you’ve done and created and built—I’m just proud, I suppose.”

Proud. He was proud of you.

“You’ve grown into something I never realised you had in you,” He added, but you found yourself frowning. John saw your face drop and he began to get flustered. “That’s—that’s not what I meant. That came out wrong—you always had this in you—I just—,”

You chuckled at him. “I get it, John. I do,” You began. “I know what it looks like. I know how I was when I first arrived in Birmingham. Back then, I _was_ an idiot,” You let out another laugh, but John didn’t join you. You saw his cold stare, almost angry.

“No, you fucking weren’t,” He said, stronger than you’d thought he’d react. “Do you not get that going off on you _own_ like that, ending up in _Birmingham_ , making a life there, a living, a job—being around the _shit_ we fucking do—is probably one of the bravest things I’ve ever known someone to do?”

You took in a sharp breath, hanging onto his every word.

“Jesus, I mean—,” John said, moving his gaze to the floor. “You were just a kid, still sort of are, and you’ve achieved all this, you’ve gone through so much shit that was thrust upon you because of us—,” He said, stopping himself short. You didn’t take the fact he’d called you a kid as offensive. You understood where he was going.

“It’s not your fault, John,”

John let out a huff, followed by a frown.

“It is. It’s our fault. We let you into our world too much. It wasn’t fair on you,” You found yourself grabbing his hand and holding it. You leaned towards him, his eyes wide, and placed a kiss on his cheek.

“You gave me a family in a town where I shouldn’t have had one. You and Polly are the voices inside my head,”

“What?” He let out, almost in a whisper.

“Not anyone else— _you_. When I’m in danger, when I’m thinking to myself, it’s always your voice that’s telling me what to do. It has been since I got on the train here,” He squeezed your hand, holding onto you for dear life. “Leaving Birmingham wasn’t just hard because of—,” You stopped and sent a glance to the Blinder’s booth. You traced the outline of Tommy’s jaw. “Him,” You let out. “It was hard because I had to leave you all behind, as well,”

“I’ll never forget how it felt when we realised you’d left the Derby,” John said.

“And I’ll never forgive myself for not saying goodbye,” You let out. You sent John a smile; it was happy and sad, mixed together. It was the best apology you could give. “You are always welcome here, John. Blinder business or not, you are welcome here.”

You thought for a moment that John might cry, but of course he didn’t. Instead, he got up from the bar and took his hand from yours.

“Come here, kiddo,” He opened his arms wide and smiled; smiled like John always did. You made your way round the bar and fell into his embrace. It was a proper hug, no cutting corners. He hugged you like you meant something to him; because you did.

No matter how much you cursed Birmingham and all that had happened, you would never curse John Shelby. He was a diamond in the rough.

“I know you resent, Tommy,” John said into your ear. You almost stopped breathing. “Hell, we’ve all had our issues with him recently. But his heart is there; under all that shit; it’s still there,” He said. You stepped out of the hug, looking at John sadly.

“I’ll believe that when I see it, John. I don’t want to talk about Tommy and me,”

“He wants to. He wants to talk,” John insisted. You could tell how much this meant to him—usually it was strangers getting involved with Tommy, people that he’d never get the chance to meet, or even want to. You were directly involved with all of the Shelby’s.

They all knew you, all liked you, all wanted you around.

Falling out with Tommy made it difficult for you to be around any of the others.

“Then when he’s ready to talk, I’ll be there,” You said, but it was half-hearted. Part of you didn’t mean it. But you didn’t have it in you to make John upset.

For those few seconds of openness, perhaps even nostalgia and happiness, it was like karma had found you immediately. Breath caught in the back of your throat as your eyes made their way to the entrance of the bar—

“John,” You said sternly. He followed your gaze to the entrance, his jaw clenching.

Joseph Kinsmen and two of his men had just waltzed into the Red Rose—

Guns raised.

Hell fire raging in their eyes.


	15. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Let's get the ball rolling now hehe.

John instinctively went to shield you, but you stopped him from doing so. You stepped away from him and approached Joseph. The gun was pointed directly at your chest.

“Mr. Kinsmen,” You forced, using every ounce of energy to try and not stutter your words. “You know my policy,”

“Ah, yes. No guns. No violence. Yet you let the Peaky fucking Blinders into your club,” Joseph sneered at John, before scanning the room. His eyes landed upon Tommy, who was now stood up from the booth, hands in pockets, chin high.

“I let you and your men in here, Mr. Kinsmen. You’ve never once brought a fight into my establishment. Why now?” You asked. You were a tad curious, but you were also trying desperately to stall him, to slow him and his men down from tearing the place apart.

“How the fuck do you know the Shelby’s?” He asked you, his brows furrowed. He looked uncomfortable holding the gun. He looked out of control. You knew he wasn’t going to pull the trigger unless threatened.

“Perhaps we should discuss this privately,” You spoke quietly, hoping that Tommy wouldn’t hear—but he did.

“Joseph,” Tommy’s voice boomed over the bar. He began strolling towards the entrance. “Let us not ruin everyone’s night. Shall we take this elsewhere?”

“Thomas fucking Shelby,” He spat. “You know, the last person I imagined turning up for this whore would be you,”

_Whore_. There it was again.

Tommy’s _fucking_ whore.

That was _it._

Without hesitating, you bombarded into Joseph, gripping onto his gun. In one swift motion, you elbowed him in the chest, sending him toppling to the floor. You cocked the gun at him without remorse—

“Call me a whore _one_ more fucking time,” You breathed out. “And I swear to God, I’ll fucking shoot you between the eyes,”

Time froze as Kinsmen’s men kept their guns on you, too afraid to shoot now that you had the barrel of one pointed at their leader. Your guests stayed still, silent, not even breathing. You were devastated any of them had to see you this way—but in one sense, you thought that would make some of them feel safer. Maybe.

Joseph let out a guttural cough, straining to get air back into his lungs.

“I see now,” Joseph croaked out. “He made you this way, didn’t he?” He, being Tommy. It always fucking was. It was always Tommy.

“You know nothing,” You spat at him.

“I have ways of finding things out, Miss L/N,” He said. If he was trying to threaten you, it really wasn’t working.

“If you had ways, then you would have known everything about me a week after I opened my doors,” You said, and were surprised to hear a chuckle escape Tommy’s lips.

_Bastard._

Joseph went back to scowling.

“I suggest you rethink the company you keep, Miss L/N,” He said, poison dripping from his lips.

“I suggest you get out and never look back, Mr. Kinsmen,” You said, turning the safety on his gun and dropping it to the ground. “Like I’ve already said,” You got down to his level, so close you could smell his breath. “I am secure. I am protected,” You smiled at him. He gulped.

You got him.

Joseph’s men hoisted him from the floor. He brushed his suit off, nothing short than incredibly embarrassed about being tackled and disarmed by you.

“Like _I’ve_ already said,” The words slithered out of his mouth. “You don’t want to mess with me, or my family,”

“I’m quaking in my heels,” You said, blank faced. “You are no longer welcome here. You or your men. I suggest you find another business to claim,” You were in too deep to give up this brave, threatening act. “You know only what I want to show you, Mr. Kinsmen. Don’t make me reveal who I truly am,”

You took a step towards him, bridging the gap. You brushed off some dust from the shoulder of his suit. “If I know the Shelby’s, then who else do I know, hm?”

He didn’t know the extent of your gang relationships stopped at the Shelby’s. He didn’t need to know. You’d planted the seed in his skull that you were surrounded by allies; allies that would ensure your safety and their demise. It was enough.

“You have a nice night, now,” You said, finally.

Everyone watched as Joseph and his goons left the club. It was silent, your guests still held their breath. You scanned the room; taking in some of their horrified faces.

You clapped your hands once, gaining the attention of everyone in the room.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, I apologise for that scene. My policy is strictly non-violent; the Red Rose is supposed to be a sanctuary, a safe place for lovely people such as yourselves to have a wonderful night. I’m sorry if this ruined that for some of you. Please, go back to your evenings. There will be a cocktail on the house for each of you if you choose to stay. If you do not, then I understand. You will be welcomed back with open arms if and when you choose to return,”

When you spoke, you felt powerful. Your voice didn’t falter, or waver. It was strong, it was in control. You were certain that some people would leave immediately, but no one did. They kept their stares fixed on you; they began to look more relaxed after you’d spoken.

“Let the band play!” You boomed, and as you did the club burst with applause, with happy cheers of people who were still ready to enjoy what the Red Rose had to offer—

You wondered if this was how Tommy and the others felt after a scene broke out at the Garrison. You wondered if they, too, appreciated the loyalty of locals that kept returning, despite the danger that happened there.

John had made his way back to the Shelby’s table. You watched Arthur slap him on the shoulder and mutter some words—possibly about the fact he’d gone to cover for you. You tried not to meet Tommy’s gaze, but it was useless—

He was staring. He was staring with those same grey intense eyes that had grown to haunt you.

You pivoted and headed for the door to the back, intent on having a cigarette in peace—

Of _course_ , he followed you.

That was becoming a regular occurrence.

Just as you’d taken your first pull of smoke, the door opened and he emerged. A cigarette dangled from his lips almost precariously, but it didn’t drop. He lit it and took a pull without saying a word.

The both of you leaned against the back wall, taking in the night air of Soho.

“Just when I think I know what to expect with you, you go and do something like that,” He broke the silence, smoke billowing around his face.

“You should learn not to underestimate me,” You said bluntly. You weren’t in the mood to have a deep conversation with him, but you got the sense that’s exactly what was about to happen.

How many secret talks, conversations in private, late night cigarettes, would it take for you to realise that Tommy Shelby would never change?

You were getting tired of it.

“After that, I will never underestimate you again,” He said, so bluntly that you almost choked on smoke. Had Tommy Shelby just complimented you? In some incredibly backwards way. “Don’t let that go to your head,” He added.

You let out a huff, all of your amazement disappearing instantly. “Bold of you to assume that anything you say anymore goes to my head, Mr. Shelby,” You said, with emphasis on his name.

Tommy flicked smoke off his cigarette. You could feel his frown.

“Why won’t you call me Tommy?” He said, his voice laced with sadness. The words hit you like concrete.

“It’s not like you to ask such a trivial thing, _Mr. Shelby_ ,” You let out. You were teasing him.

And he didn’t like it.

Without warning, he dropped his cigarette and stood face to face with you, his arms against the wall on either side of you.

_Oh, here we go again._

You sighed in his face, exhausted.

“I don’t want to do this right now—,”

“Do what?” He asked, but it didn’t sound like a question. You furrowed your brows at him, pushing one of his arms away so you could separate yourself from him.

“The past is in the past, Tommy. Enough of this,”

Tommy let out a chuckle. It irked you.

“You called me Tommy,”

“Lucky you,”

Tommy paused, his stare on your back.

“I _was_ lucky,” He said, his voice was nothing but a sombre whisper.

It only enraged you. What was he doing, playing the lost puppy? Tommy Shelby was _not_ a lost puppy, he was a conniving gang leader; he was poison. You told yourself not to scream at him, not to yell in his face, but the prospect of doing it was too tempting—

You wanted to yell at Tommy Shelby. You wanted to yell so loudly.

“Can you not take a fucking hint, Tommy?” You swivelled on your heels to face him. “I do not want anything to do with you, and you have put me in this situation that I cannot get out of. _Do not_ test my patience,”

“Oh, I’m testing _your_ patience? What the hell was all that back at the table? Trying to humiliate me in front of my own men?” He retorted.

“You have humiliated me in front of your _entire_ family. What _exactly_ is the difference?”

“ _You_ are the difference. They know what I’ve done. They _know_ that it’s personal—,”

“ _Nothing_ is personal between us, Tommy. Nothing has been personal since you got Grace pregnant and told me you loved me a week later. _Nothing_ ,”

Tommy exploded.

“You get her name _out of your fucking mouth_ —,”

“Or _what_? You’ll follow me again? You’ll wind your way into my life for a third time after I leave?” You yelled, that familiar feeling of tears welling in your eyes beginning. “Can’t you see that I don’t want you in my _fucking_ life!”

“Can’t you see that _I’m sorry_ for everything I’ve done to you?” He croaked. You stopped breathing for a second.

Thomas Shelby just said the word _sorry_.

You could feel your guts crawling up your throat.

“No. I can’t see it,” You replied, in a coarse whisper. His eyes were fixed on yours. You ceased to move, to breathe, to give any indication of his words getting under your skin.

He grabbed a cigarette from his pocket and lit it, taking a large drag—

He held it out to you.

Like old times.

“Then let me show you,” He said, cigarette firmly between his fingers, right in front of your face. “Let me,” He repeated.

_Desperately._

He was desperate for your forgiveness—why?

He’d said it back at the house, too.

_Then how are you to forgive me?_

He wanted retribution—he wanted you to accept his apology.

This is what John meant by Tommy wanting to talk to you. He was willing to apologise, to fix things, to go back to being civil. Hell—you didn’t know if he wanted _more_ , but even the thought of being that close with Tommy again made you want to vomit out your heart.

You made a decision, then and there—

That Tommy Shelby would have to fucking _work._

And if he stumbled, if he did any little thing to make you feel belittled, to make you hate yourself more than you already did, to make him get under your skin—

Then he was gone.

Forever.

You took the cigarette from his hands and placed in between your lips—

You took a large drag, blowing the smoke back in Tommy’s face.

You scowled at him—

“This is the last time we have this conversation, Tommy,” You said bluntly. You meant it—he knew this was it. He knew this was the final straw, that you didn’t even owe him the satisfaction of you someday forgiving him. He knew.

“I know,” He replied.

You took another drag of his cigarette before chucking it to the floor.

Then you turned on your heels to the back door. You went inside without looking back—

Slamming the door in Tommy’s face.


	16. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof.

When Tommy and the others left, you let out a sigh of relief that you hadn’t realised you’d been holding.

At 3am, the Red Rose closed its doors. You and Martin waved goodbye to the staff and made your way upstairs. You changed, washed your face, got yourself ready for another night of no sleep at all.

It was all too real, all too fast. The Peaky Blinders were in your life again—something you’d silently vowed yourself not to let happen—yet here you were. Though, in this sense, it wasn’t your fault; Tommy had been the one to appear, guns blazing, men stationed. It was him. Not you.

You stared at the ceiling, the minutes blurring into hours, until the sun began to shine through your curtains. You let out an exhausted sigh and got up, rubbing your tired eyes until they were red and irritated. You slipped on your night gown and made your way down the corridor to Martin’s room.

You creaked the door open. He stirred, sitting up in bed sleepily. “Y/N?” He said softly, his voice nothing more than a croak. You smiled sadly at him and shut the door, making your way to his bed.

He lifted the covers and you slid in. He tucked you in, bringing his arms around you in an embrace. “Have you slept at all?” He asked.

“What do you think?” You said, nuzzling your head into his shoulder. Martin sighed through his nose.

“I hate that he makes you feel like this,” He whispered. “He’s a bastard. I can’t believe—”

“I don’t want to talk about him right now,” You interrupted, and Martin stopped.

“Can you answer me one question about him? Then I’ll be done,” Martin asked. You didn’t have the heart to refuse him. You nodded. “Do you still love him?”

You closed your eyes, and suddenly you were with Polly at the stables at Tommy’s mansion. Her eyes were wide, glistening, the hint of a smile on her lips. _Do you still love him?_

You hadn’t answered her back then.

“I don’t know,” You let out, finally. Martin only held you tighter. That’s when the tears started. You hid your face from Martin as they fell down your face, too ashamed of this behaviour. You knew Martin didn’t mind, but still—it was unprofessional. It was weak. “I don’t want him taking any percentage of my business, Martin. That would truly kill me,”

“I know,” He replied.

That’s what Tommy was—a killer.

A player—

A man so out of touch with his emotions he couldn’t even separate work from his wife and child.

“Get some sleep, now. You need it,” Martin said, bringing his hand up to stroke your hair. You almost choked at his gentle touch—that’s when you realised how long it had been since you’d felt genuine love and care from another.

Since you’d felt the embrace of your father, or the care from your brothers.

Since you’d had the warm touch of your mother, or eaten her fresh bread.

You hadn’t thought about home—your old home—in so long, it was like you’d almost forgotten that it existed, that somewhere, about an hour away, it was all still there.

And art—

What happened to that creative side of you? Had it been sucked away by all the guns, the blood, the violence?

You hadn’t painted since you’d done the walls for the Red Rose. You hadn’t so much as picked up a pencil—

Maybe you were more like Tommy than you’d thought.

_People like us never stop working._

_People like_ us _? There is no us. We’re not the same, Tommy._

Maybe you were.

-

That evening, you hopped out of the car, Tommy and John after you. You stared up at the club in front of you, a sour taste entering your mouth.

“I thought this place went under,” You said, scowling. John offered his arm to you, which you took with a small smile.

“It did—thanks to us. Now it’s ours,” Tommy said, almost smugly.

You entered in through the doors into a massive room. It was lavish, draped with gold and white silk—it mimicked the gold of the Garrison. Your anxiety began to spike.

“Who used to own this place?” You chided. Tommy turned to you, his eyes glinting.

“A man named Sabini,”

Sabini. He’d mentioned the Sabini’s before—another gang. A London based gang.

“I don’t understand,” You said honestly. John let you go when he reached the bar. Tommy continued to show you around the room. You followed him, always a few steps behind; you didn’t wish to walk side by side with him.

Tommy gestured to a table in the corner. You both sat, getting comfortable, as the band played and the people mingled. It was busy—

It made you somewhat jealous.

Tommy lit a cigarette, sliding the packet to your side of the table. “Do you remember, before Epsom, after McCullen had—,”

He stopped himself short. He swallowed, as if the memory pained him.

“Had kidnapped me? Yes, I remember it well,” You let out sarcastically, taking a cigarette from his pack and lighting it without a word.

Tommy let out a deep breath. “When I told you, after all that, that we could scrap the painting,” He continued, but slowly, almost like he was scared of tripping on his words.

“You told me you had new business,” You added, the memory making its way back into your brain, despite the efforts of two years to flush it out.

“ _This_ was business. Bringing down the Sabini’s,”

Your heart stopped.

“So, you own a club? Not even fifteen minutes away from my own?” You tried to say it bluntly, tried not to make yourself sound hurt—but you were. Tommy intervened in your own business when he had the exact same one for himself.

“We finished decorations last week. Its grand opening was tonight,” Tommy said, stubbing out his cigarette. His eyes traversed the club, taking in the people, the drinks, the atmosphere—

It made you feel sick, because that look—that exact look of wonder and achievement—is what you’d had on your opening night for the Red Rose.

Nothing was sacred, anymore.

John came back with drinks; beers all round. You stared at the pint glass with wide eyes, trying to remember the last time you’d had a beer—

Since coming to London, all you drank was gin. You hadn’t had beer since you were in Birmingham.

John frowned at you. “Something wrong?” He asked. You snapped yourself out of it.

“How much?” You said suddenly. Tommy shot his gaze to you. “How much do you want of my fucking business, despite the fact you have your own, and probably more all over the bloody country, hm?” You saw red.

He was selfish—

He kept secrets.

You still hated it, even more so.

“The cost of protection is not free, Tommy. I am not an idiot,” You said, more rushed this time. You wanted him to get it over with, to tell you how much of your soul you’d have to give up to him that would satisfy.

You hastily finished your cigarette and immediately went for another. You lit it with shaking hands and sucked the smoke deep into your lungs, then let it out slowly.

Tommy leaned back in his chair, the look on his face one that you couldn’t pin down. It wasn’t shock, but was something close. It wasn’t hurt, but that was definitely laced within.

“You really think so little of me that you assume I’m going to take a percentage of your business, Y/N?”

You wanted to say _The same way you thought so little of me to think I came back to Birmingham to fuck you after your wife just died,_ but you held your tongue; too stunned to say so many words.

“What?” Was all you managed. Tommy leaned forward.

“Nothing. I want nothing of your business. It is wholeheartedly yours,” He took a gulp of beer, wiping his chin aggressively after. “You really think me to be the Devil, don’t you?”

The Devil—that was one of many ways to describe him, yes.

“You’ve never showed me anything different,” You replied, and Tommy’s face dropped.

There it was— _hurt._

He was hurt.

You thought a tiny part of you would care about him being hurt—but it didn’t.

_You didn’t fucking care._

Tommy perked up, tapping his glass. “Drinks are free for you, here, whenever you wish to visit. The staff already know who you are,” He stood, shoving his hands in his pockets, a cigarette dangling from his lips. “Polly and Michael are due to arrive soon. Enjoy your night,” He said, before walking out back.

You let out a small chuckle, turning to John.

“Want to dance?”

You dragged John to the dance floor, a giant grin on your face. He gripped your waist as you held his shoulder, your other hands flush together as you started following his lead. You couldn’t stop laughing at odd points, reliving when Tommy said those words;

_Nothing. I want nothing of your business._

If John thought you were insane, he didn’t say it. Instead, he kept quiet. You could see the cogs working in his brain, that he was thinking about something.

“Did you really think we were going to make you pay us?” He finally said, a frown on his face.

“That’s what you _do,_ John. Why would I expect anything different?”

He stopped dancing, abruptly letting you go. He wondered off the dance floor, you on his tail.

“John? What?” You said, your brows furrowed.

“Even if Tommy had suggested it, do you really think me, Polly or Arthur would have fucking let him do that?” His voice was laced with disgust. “How many times have I told you that—,” He stopped, bringing a hand to his head. “That we _care_ for you.”

“John—this is business. This isn’t about _me,_ ”

“Yes, it is. Because you’re not just a fucking business to us, Y/N. It’s like Arthur said, the day before the Derby at the Garrison—you’re _family._ ”

Family.

Arthur had said— _Let’s give her a real Peaky send off, a real_ family _send off._

That word had gone through one ear and out the other. These men and woman had known you three months—how had they truly accepted you as family? You thought it had just been a gesture of good will, nothing more.

“Do you not get that?” John continued. “To me—you’re like a fucking sister.”

“A sister?” You repeated, but your hearing had almost stopped.

A sister.

You hadn’t been a sister since 1915.

You hadn’t had a _brother_ since then, either.

You swallowed back the tears you could feel welling up behind your eyes.

“Stop talking nonsense,” You said, almost aggressively. The voice that came out of your mouth didn’t sound like your own. “Those three months were nothing more than _me_ working for all of _you._ Don’t make it out to be anything more—,”

“Jesus. Who the fuck _are_ you?” John spoke over you, his face utterly covered with pain. “I don’t know who you are anymore, Y/N. I thought I did, but I don’t,”

You watched as he paced it out the entrance of the club, leaving you alone om the edge of the dance floor. The music blared in your ears, but all you could hear was the blood pumping through your veins. You wished that blood would bleed out onto the floor; that you could just _stop._

You wished you could _feel_ properly again, without the need to say such hurtful things when you felt overwhelmed in any way.

_Maybe you were more like Tommy than you thought._

“Y/N!” A yell pierced through the club, hitting your ears. Polly rushed over, her face nothing less than a ray of sunshine. Michael strolled behind her as she embraced you. You hardly hugged her back.

She pulled herself from you, accessing your face and frowning. “What? What’s happened?” She said, bringing a hand to your face. You met Michael’s gaze as he stood behind her; he looked steely, but concerned.

All you did was let out a small laugh, but it sounded like a croak.

“I’ve done something, Polly,” You said, realising just how your words must have sounded to John. “I think I’ve really hurt John,”

“John?” Polly said, whipping her gaze round to meet Michael’s eyes. She grimaced at her son; one full of pity and concern for you. She turned to you once more, sending you a small smile. “Come on, let’s have a drink,”

She left for the table, leaving you and Michael standing at the edge of the dance floor.

Michael approached you, hands in pockets, eyes so green and sharp. Nothing like Tommy’s. He stuck out his hand, and you took it in your own. You let him lead you to the table, slowly, gently;

All the while, his fingers circling your knuckles.


	17. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry about this chapter. This is still a Tommy fic. I'm just mîxíńg it up for yall, lmao.
> 
> Enjoy x

“He’ll get over it,” Polly said, flicking the ash from her cigarette. “He has a soft spot for you, Y/N. Eventually, he’ll understand that you probably don’t have the fondest of memories from two years ago,”

“I think he understands that already, Poll,” You replied, sipping on the beer John got you. “I think he wishes to comfort me,” You said. Polly and Michael met each other’s eyes.

“I think you’re right,” Michael chimed in. “Because we all want to comfort you from that time,” He said, so plainly and bluntly that you couldn’t understand how he hadn’t blushed. Then again, he was a man now. You should treat him as such.

“I—,” You began, trying to find the right words. “I appreciate you all wanting to comfort me, but I don’t want it,” You said. “This was two years ago. I’ve figured out my own ways of moving on in that time. Every time one of you tries to comfort me, it all comes flooding back—,”

“Because you haven’t moved on,” Polly said clearly. She stubbed out her cigarette as you stared at her coldly. You felt like a child. “You only squashed it down, Y/N, everyone can see that—,”

“Everyone should keep their noses out of my fucking business—,”

“See?” Polly said, keeping her gaze gripped to you. “Don’t you see that you haven’t healed in the slightest?”

“I don’t need you telling me how I should feel, Polly,” You retorted. You were angry, but also on the brink of tears. “None of you will ever be able to know what it felt like back then for me. None. Don’t you dare try to tell me what I’m feeling, because you’ll never fucking understand,”

Polly leaned back in her chair, a small smile appearing on her face. You looked to Michael, same expression on his face.

“Well, you’ve certainly got better at saying how you truly feel,” Michael said. He shot you somewhat of a proud smile. “You were always so silent about what you thought you deserved, your worth,” Michael began. You were gripped onto every word. “I’m glad that you finally know how to fight back, to get what you know you deserve,”

His words hit you like a train.

Maybe you had finally started to understand your own worth, but if you were finally capable of speaking your feelings, all of them seemed to be one thing; angry.

Angry as red war.

You nodded towards Michael’s cigarettes. He plucked one from the pack for you, but didn’t hand it to you. Instead, he placed in betwixt your lips. You were too stunned to move, even when he flicked his lighter and lit the end, smoke pouring from the lit tobacco.

You stared at him as you sucked in smoke; he stared back. It was as if the two of you were able to communicate in only stares and smiles, nothing more. It was always a mysterious time when you were with Michael; you couldn’t quite place your finger on him.

Polly coughed abruptly, bringing yourself back to reality. You and Michael stopped gazing at each other and turned to her. She was smiling; one of her mischievous smiles.

“I think I’ll go and find someone to dance with,” She said, getting up suddenly. Neither of you could say anything before she’d whisked herself away. You looked towards Michael, blush creeping onto your cheeks.

You forced yourself to snap out of it, leaning back in your chair and enjoying Michael’s gold brand cigarettes.

“It will be fine with John, you know,” Michael said finally.

“I know. I’m still going to apologise, though,”

“You’re good at that,” Michael began. “Apologising when you don’t need to,” He looked towards you with an understanding smile. You furrowed your brows at him. How the fuck did he know all of this about you? He hardly knew you back then—he hardly knew you now.

“How do you do that?” You asked, too eager to understand. “Know me from a single stare, remember me that well from the past? I don’t understand,” You said honestly. Perhaps you’d revealed too much.

“The same way you know how I’ve changed now,” He said, eyes full of warmth. You stared at him in a silent agreement, before shooting your gaze to around the club. It was bustling; Tommy and John sat at the bar, talking in hushed whispers; Polly was dancing with a stranger.

It felt so strange. You hadn’t sat like this and known that they were all around you in so long.

Known that they cared.

“Michael,” You said, not even turning to face him. “Will you come home with me?” You said, but as soon as the words left your mouth, you realised what you’d said. You calmed yourself internally before flicking ash from your cig and looking at him. “To Goring. Where I’m from,” You explained, but Michael’s face wasn’t even bothered about the earlier remark. “I haven’t been back since I left for Birmingham,”

You had no idea why you’d asked Michael out of everyone. You could have asked John, or Polly—not _Tommy_ —but why had you asked him?

“I’d be honoured,” He replied.

-

You and Michael jumped off the train at Goring two days later.

As the train left, you took in the scent of the air that was so familiar, but it felt so far away from what you knew you now. London was overrun with pollution, crime, illness; but things _happened_ there.

Things never happened here.

Michael stood beside you as you took everything in, waiting patiently for you to make the first move. Five minutes passed before you even began to walk up the street, away from the station.

It was a crisp day, but you knew the sun would cut through the cold soon. When it did, it was as if the village came alive. It was all pruned rose bushes, wildflowers, green lawns. It was all families who had lived here forever, never intent on leaving or finding somewhere new.

You and Michael passed the church. Your eyes flickered over it as you remembered the countless hours you’d spent in there learning to paint. That was a fond memory—

The rest of the village, however, you knew would leave a sour taste in your mouth.

That’s where you’d found out your father and brothers were going to war. That’s where your mother had begun to spiral. That’s where you’d fled in the early morning for the train station, not looking back once.

You stopped abruptly before the corner to the main village, too afraid that you’d break down.

Michael placed his hand in yours gently. “You are more than what you were treated like here,” He said it without fumbling. He said it genuinely. You stared at him for as long as it took you to calm down. Hand in hand, the two of you turned the corner to the main village.

Immediately, you got stared down. You didn’t expect anything different; you hadn’t been here in so long; you donned tailored trousers and a blouse, necklaces and rings; handmade shoes; your hair had grown. You weren’t the same as you once were.

You wanted to bet that Michael was also being stared at; or perhaps, gawked at. He was wearing a fitted suit, gold cufflinks, his hair in perfect finger waves, his eyes greener than the grass in the gardens.

The village was the same as when you’d left; a post office, a café, a barber, the church—the bakery.

_The bakery?_

It was up and running—the same one you’d worked in with your mother for years.

You smelled the air; it was _her_ bread.

“She went bust,” You explained. “I—I can’t believe she managed to reopen,”

Michael gripped your hand tighter. “Hungry?” He asked, shooting you a strong smile. You got the gist; he was asking if you wanted to go inside and check it out. You’d come all this way, it would have seemed a waste to leave without seeing everything—

Without seeing your mother again, perhaps.

You made a show of sticking your chin up when you finally began to walk towards the bakery. Michael was always a few steps behind you; watching over you; perhaps even protecting you.

You opened the door; the ding of a welcome bell chimed. It was empty, the smell of freshly made goods now overwhelming. You remembered what it was like, being behind the counter, kneading and baking the bread in the back, the smiles you always got from locals.

Now, you were no longer that same person.

It took a few seconds for her to arrive. She whisked out from the back, wiping flour from her hands onto her apron. “Sorry—was just checking the loaves. What can I get you—?”

Your mother’s eyes hit your own, and she stopped speaking. Her face went blank, almost as if she were frowning, but she wasn’t; at least not yet.

“Hello, mother,” You spoke, thinking your voice would be a wobbly mess, but it came out plainly.

“W-we have fresh bread, or yesterday’s bread which is good for toasting,” She continued, before she turned her back to inspect the already stocked shelves. “Or perhaps a sweet treat. We have muffins, and buns—,”

“How have you been?” You ignored her words. She kept her back on you for a few seconds, before turning. Her eyes hit yours once more; they were welling up; but her face donned something else—

Anger.

“Are you married?” She asked, her words full of venom.

“No,” You replied. “I have my own business. In London,”

“London—what a disgusting city. I should have known you ran off there,” She spat. Michael took a step closer to you.

“I went to Birmingham first, actually,” You explained, even though you knew she didn’t care. Your mother’s face practically dropped.

“Birmingham? Jesus Christ,” She said, her face reddening. “Unmarried and travelling to Birmingham and London of all places. _Blasphemous_. I did not raise you this way—,”

“You didn’t raise me. Father did,” You retorted, completely giving up the niceties.

“He was never a good role model,” She whispered.

“He went to _war,_ ”

“Yes, and then he died,” Your mother began to shake. “So did your brothers. Have you forgotten that?”

“How _dare_ you think I’d ever forget such a thing—,” Your anger was rising.

“How dare _you_ come back here after everything, after _abandoning_ your remaining family—,”

“Abandoning _you_? Mother—you didn’t _speak_. You left me in the company of your blasted mother and father—they treated me like dirt!”

“Maybe it’s because they saw you for what you are—a _disgrace_.”

You bit down on your tongue, too afraid that you were about to swear in your mother’s face. You knew this interaction wasn’t going to be easy, but you didn’t expect your own mother to treat you like this, even after so long.

“I’ve made a name for myself,” You began. “I’ve had my own business for over a year. I built it from the ground up,” Your mother let out a deep breath, before she decided to move her gaze to Michael. She looked at him sceptically, like a piece of meat.

“What—you want my approval?” She said bluntly. You found yourself letting out a chuckle, but it was laced with something a lot less than laughter;

Hatred.

“No. I used to want your approval, but now?” Your jaw shook. “I want _nothing_ from you,”

You stared your mother down as her face contorted. She was hurt—that was a face you knew well. You finally knew the power your words held over people, and she was the one person you’d wanted to stand up to your entire life.

You’d finally done it.

“Then leave,” Your mother whispered. “You will never have a home here, again,”

Two years ago, you would have cried.

Now, you only smiled at her words. Words that were meant to hurt you, pain you; they simply numbed you.

“I wouldn’t want a home here if it were the last place on Earth,” You replied. You straightened out your blouse and flicked the hair out of your eyes. You sniffed the air before turning on your heels back to the door. Michael left first, holding the door open for you.

You stopped in the doorway, your back turned to your mother.

“Your loaves are burning,” You said, before you slammed the door shut; the small bell falling off the top of the door and breaking as it hit the floor.

You paced past Michael as soon as the door slammed, making your way back through the village and heading towards the houses. You kept your jaw clamped shut, too afraid that you’d scream if it opened.

You weren’t expecting much from your mother, but you hadn’t expected that little. She was your fucking mother—and she treated you like that? After all this time?

You made a vow to yourself then and there, fast walking past white picket fences with Michael trying to keep up on your tail, that this was never your home—

Your real home had been Birmingham, and it always would be.

The thrill of a chase, the cock of a gun, the blood running down your forehead—

That was more of a home than you’d ever had here and will ever have for the rest of your life. The criminals and convicts there had taken you in, bathed you, raised you, in the space of three months that you hadn’t got from 20 years in this place.

It was enough.

“Y/N—,” Michael said, jogging to catch up with you. “Hey—hey!” He caught up to you and gripped your shoulder. You immediately shrugged him off.

“ _Leave it_ , Michael,”

“We are _not_ leaving that be,” He said. You got into his face, staring him down.

“Yes, we are,” You said sternly. Michael only stared back you with the same ferocity.

“Tell me how you feel,” He said. You let out a loud laugh.

“How I _feel?_ Well, how do you fucking think?”

Michael raised his brows at you, waiting for a proper answer. You hated that he wanted you to be open. You hated that if you’d just brought Tommy here, he would have been content with you harbouring it all inside; he wouldn’t have pushed you for closure.

“I feel— _angry_. But not surprised,” You said, calmer this time. You looked around you at all the houses. Ivy snaked up the bricks of a few, but all had blooming wildflowers and green grass, some had swing sets, treehouses, apple trees—

It was so different from what you knew now.

“I wasn’t expecting her to welcome me back with open arms, Michael. You don’t know my mother. That right there, was me getting disowned completely,”

“And?” Michael pressed. You wanted to hit something, but you didn’t. You simply stared at him; tired, exhausted.

“And—I’m _okay_ with that,” You said, finally. “I have more support and love from the found family I have than from actual blood. I know that now,”

Michael smiled at you, and you knew that was what he was looking for. He approached you slowly, bringing both his hands to each side of your shoulders and hugging you before you could protest.

You let him, and wrapped your arms around his torso as you fell into his grasp. He smelled sweet, like lilies or orchids. He felt strong, not just physically, but mentally and emotionally. He was the most put together Shelby out of the bunch, and that was saying something; no Shelby was ever completely whole.

As Michael let his embrace go slack, he kept you close. You were face to face, inches away from each other, so close you could feel his breathing—

That’s when he pulled in, placing his lips upon your own.

As Michael kissed you, your stomach dropped. You kissed him back, tightening your grip on his torso. He brought his hands to your face, placing them on either side and holding onto you for dear life.

For the first time in two years, you were having a kiss that actually made you feel something.

No one since Tommy had made you feel so special, or understood—

It overwhelmed you.

_Stop—_

You pulled away from Michael abruptly, bringing your fingers to your lips and staring at him with furrowed brows.

“I’m sorry—I just—,”

“No, I’m sorry,” He interjected. “Forgive me, but I’ve been wanting to do that since that night we shared at Tommy’s mansion,” You couldn’t believe what you were hearing.

Was this some breach of family code? You’d had something with Tommy in the past, and now this with Michael? You were thinking too much that you couldn’t understand anything that was going on.

This made things a whole lot more complicated.

_You didn’t like complicated._

“Look, Michael—I don’t deny that I have been indulgent with you—,”

“You don’t have to explain anything. I know,” He looked at you like he’d finally worked something out.

“Know what?” You asked, but you were afraid of what he was about to say.

“You still love him,” Michael said, so plainly that your heart dropped to the bottom of your gut. “Tommy,”

You turned your back on him, too afraid that your anger would make tears pour from your eyes. You were so _sick_ of people trying to work out whether you still loved Tommy or not—it was none of their fucking business—why did they _care?_

You were so over people trying to butt their noses into your life, your feelings, your emotions, when you didn’t want anyone getting involved.

All you wanted was your club, your friendship with Martin, to be able to see Polly and John without feeling sick to your stomach whenever people looked at you with pity or sympathy or with the wonder about whether you still loved Tommy—

That was the thing; it was as if people thought of you as ‘the girl who got her heartbroken by Thomas Shelby’ instead of the other way around. If only they knew about Tommy’s visit to London two weeks after you left Birmingham—

But it was too late now. You were forever cursed to be known as this person who was still invisibly tied to Tommy and the Shelby’s—

It was too late.

“For once, I wish someone would ask Tommy about all this for answers, instead of me,” You began.

“Y/N—,”

“Why must I constantly relive those months when I am only one half of the situation? Don’t you think that to be incredibly unfair?” You kept your back turned on him. Michael gulped, shame covering his face.

“I’m sorry,” He spoke, and he meant it.

You shut your eyes, taking in the fresh air, the sounds, the church bells ringing—

This would be the one and only time you returned.

You opened your eyes, and instead of nostalgia hitting you, the nameless and faceless village sat before you—

It was unknown to you now, shot from your memory with the bullets from your father’s revolver—

_Forever._

“Let’s go home,”


	18. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oooooooohooOOOOOO i hope yall enjoy this one. 
> 
> it's all HAPPENING

The Shelby’s stayed in London for the next few weeks, overseeing their new club, protecting yours and invading your space;

Classic.

You’d wake up and go down to start preparations for your bar, just to be met with Michael and Polly having a morning cigarette and a chat. On few occasions, Tommy or Arthur or other Peaky Blinders would be with them. You only saw John occasionally, and you’d never speak.

It was all becoming too _normal._

Being around the Shelby’s like this again made you feel like you had two years before; a novice; stuck in the body and mind of someone who didn’t know any better. You found yourself fumbling with small tasks that you knew perfectly, or forgetting things, like your cigarettes, or what mixer went with which cocktail.

It was driving you insane, making you feel weak when you were the leader in this scenario.

Not to mention the obvious tension that was still between you and Michael, and the guilt you felt about John still being held over your head.

It was odd to say it, but the only person you felt you could actually _breathe_ around was Tommy. He said things as they were, he’d stopped making you feel small;

He was trying.

Really, truly, trying.

It only made you feel more confused about that kiss with Michael, and the obvious feelings he had for you.

You joined Polly one morning, two weeks after Goring. You slumped into the booth, tightening the strap on your dressing gown and letting your unbrushed hair fall over your eyes. You lit a cigarette as she looked you up and down.

“Rough night?” She chided, though you knew Poll hated small talk. Her conversations always turned into something meaningful. She had the ways of a trained therapist—she was capable of talking secrets out of you without you even realising.

“It was rammed last night,” You replied. It was the truth, but only half of. You hadn’t slept properly since getting back from Goring with Michael. You’d hardly spoken to him properly since he’d kissed you.

“You’re not sleeping,” Polly said; a statement. You stared at her sourly.

“No no, you’re not doing that _thing_ on me, Poll,”

“What _thing_?” She replied, the hint of a smile on her lips. You flicked ash.

“Making me talk about things without realising I’m doing it,” You began. “I don’t know if it’s the gypsy blood in you that makes it so, but I don’t want that _thing_ anywhere near me,” You gave her jazz hands whenever you said _thing_ , just to add emphasis.

Polly laughed joyously.

“You do make me laugh, Y/N,” She stubbed out her cigarette. “But there is something festering within you. I can feel it,”

“Well, _un_ -feel it,” You said, but you were close to laughing alongside her.

The door to the back opened abruptly, revealing Tommy and Martin. They chatted closely, making their way to the bar. You watched as they walked together, a feeling of annoyance rising up within you.

You didn’t like the way Tommy was getting closer to Martin. Martin already wasn’t a fan of him, since you’d told him of your past, but the way they always had a conversation on the go over the past two weeks was starting to get to you.

You forced yourself up from the booth, sending Poll a wave goodbye, before making your way to the door back to the flat.

“Y/N, wait,” Tommy spoke up. You turned to him to see that he wasn’t even looking at you. His eyes were plastered on documents that sat atop the bar. You waited, watching him as he gave Martin a nod and stuffed them in the pocket of his trousers.

Your eyes hit Martin’s—

He looked worried, or concerned, or pitiful.

You wondered why. He’d never looked at you that way before.

Tommy approached you, grabbing your arm gently. He looked you in the eye, silent.

“What?” You said with a scowl.

“Can I discuss something with you?” You furrowed your brows at him, then remembered what you looked like; still in your dressing gown, hair unbrushed.

“Let me get changed first,” You said.

“It can’t wait,” Tommy replied, and you found your stomach dropping to the bottom of your gut. It scared you—his seriousness, it terrified you.

“Okay,” You said, and allowed him to lead you out the back.

It was late afternoon, around 4pm. The London sky was grey—it looked like it was about to rain.

Tommy closed the door behind you both, before facing you head on. You found yourself suddenly vulnerable, wearing nothing but your night clothes, in front of this man that had already seen you wearing just your brassiere and knickers once before. You hugged your arms close to your body.

Tommy plucked his cigarettes from his pocket, handing you one and lighting it before you could refuse. The two of you smoked in silence for a few seconds.

“Is it the Kinsmen?” You asked, trying to get the ball rolling. Being able to have comfortable silence with Tommy again made you feel uneasy.

“No, it’s not gang related, or business related,” He said, before taking another long drag.

“Then what is it, Tommy?” You asked again, this time more frantically. You hated it when he was quiet—it was out of character—Tommy always had something to say.

For one second, you thought that perhaps he’d found out about Michael. It made you swallow uncomfortably; it made your legs shake slightly—

You had no idea why you felt such guilt about kissing Michael when you weren’t even with Tommy anymore. It still felt wrong, though, and it had been an utter surprise. You hadn’t dwelled on it too much, since every time you did Tommy’s face popped into your head.

But you couldn’t deny the way it had made you feel; warm, safe, _loved_ even. In that moment, kissing Michael, somewhere deep down you were imagining that you were someplace else—

But that had left as soon as you’d opened your eyes to see;

It wasn’t Tommy’s office in Birmingham. It was Goring, with Michael.

You waited for his reply, your blood pumping and heart hurting.

“Dinner,” He said plainly. “I was wondering if you wanted to go to dinner with me,” He kept his gaze in front of him as he spoke, almost as if he was scared of meeting your eyes. You regarded him, trying to ignore the way your heart had started pumping loudly in your ears.

“Dinner?” You repeated. “Just us?” You said, though you already knew the answer.

Tommy Shelby was asking you, and only you, to dinner.

With him.

_Alone._

“Martin tells me you’re a fan of the restaurant down the road,”

_Martin. Now it all made sense._

You took a drag of your cigarette, thinking about the fact he’d asked Martin for inside knowledge of what you liked—and that Martin had complied.

_Dickhead._

It was all a tad comical—Thomas Shelby, gang boss, murderer, businessman, asking you on a dinner _date_ out the back of your club in private—and he couldn’t even meet your eye.

It was hilarious when you imagined what the two of you must look like from an outside perspective; a woman in her dressing gown, a man in his trousers and slacks, both having a cigarette—

_How romantic._

“What’s the catch?” You said finally. “Need another painting forged? Need some free cocktails for the Blinders?” You chuckled to yourself, and that’s when Tommy turned to you, finally.

His eyes were serious, his jaw was clenched.

“Go to dinner with me, Y/N,” He said it without hesitation. He reminded you of a little boy, confessing his feelings for you in the park, or at school. “No catch, just two people enjoying a nice meal,”

“And why are we the two people, Tommy?” You looked at him without faltering. If he was being utterly serious about this, you wanted to know why.

“Because,” Tommy began, and you could have sworn you saw the cogs working in his brain for the first time since you’d met him. “In truth, I can’t stop thinking about you,”

Your heart bombarded into your ribs. You stared at him with wide eyes, your cigarette dangling from your fingers as smoked coiled between the both of you.

“I won’t do this again—,”

“This isn’t like before,” Tommy said, bringing his hands to your face. You let him, too stunned to even move. “The past is in the past, we toasted it away,” He said, and his words trickled over you like butter—

You hated that you were listening to his every word.

“You are more of a woman than I have ever deserved,” He said, his thumb circling your cheek.

“Yes, I am,” You agreed, swallowing uncomfortably. You didn’t back away from his touch. Some part of you still wanted to be close to him, despite his actions. That part of yourself that had given him a chance to right his wrongs was screaming at you that he was finally doing so, but the other—

It was telling you to run.

To run for the hills and never look back.

“I won’t do this again,” You repeated, not knowing what to say or what to do. All you could feel was the way Tommy’s thumbs circled your face gently. All you could think about was that final time in his office, when his lips had finally touched yours.

“This won’t be like before,” Tommy spoke without hesitation. “I will not take you for granted like I’ve done in the past,” He inched his face closer to yours. “I will cherish you, the same way I have cherished this time that we’ve all got to spend with you once more, even after I painted it all red.”

You pictured Tommy, brush in hand, fingers dripping red—but not from blood;

Painting. Smiling. Hand in hand with you.

You pulled away from him first, staring into his eyes.

“I’ll go to dinner with you, Tommy,” You said, fumbling slightly on your words. You were determined not to let your nerves get the better of you. “But only as _friends_ , right now,”

You had never put Thomas Shelby and ‘friend’ in the same equation before. You hadn’t thought it possible to ever just be friends with him—but you had to try, for now.

You didn’t know if it would ever blossom into more—

But you _couldn’t_ lose him—

Couldn’t lose this man that had both built and destroyed your defences, time and time again.

You found yourself then thinking of all the times that people had asked you whether you still loved Tommy or not; how they’d never once asked him the same question—

You inhaled deeply, and thus took in the inner strength that you felt you’d been missing since the Shelby’s came back into your life.

“Do you still love me?” You let out, and Tommy’s face didn’t change. He kept his gaze on yours, his eyes honest and true; the hint of a smile on sad lips.

“I never stopped.”


	19. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO IM ALIVE IM SORRY!!! This month has been a complete whirlwind and I simply didn't have the time to write. I'm so sorry for leaving you all hanging... oof. 
> 
> This chapter in truth was hard to write. I found myself losing pacing and because of that, I needed to change things up a bit. 
> 
> I think there'll be a shock at the end of this chapter for you all, hehe. 
> 
> Enjoy x

When you came back to reality your brow was drenched in sweat. You’d slammed your bedroom door behind you, after running as soon as those three words had left Tommy’s mouth—

_I never stopped._

Tommy Shelby, despite Grace, his wedding, his child; hadn’t ceased to love you.

Instead, he had trodden it to the ground, happy and in love with his wife; his love for you being harboured deep beneath the blood and grit of what you’d once had.

The thoughts that had littered your mind for the past two years had finally been answered, but you didn’t know whether you _wanted_ this or not.

Your heart was aching, even more so, now. It held the weight of Tommy’s love for you, mixed with your own for him that you hadn’t thought about in over two years. It held confusion about Michael, hurt about John, hatred for how much you had tried to forget that they’d ever been in your life;

It had taken time, but you had eventually travelled back to each other.

Your head was screaming. It was telling you that this was fake, idiotic, barbaric. It was telling you that all that Tommy had done should not be forgiven, that letting him back into your life so deeply would be the second biggest mistake you’d ever make.

This is why you’d agreed; but on the basis of friendship.

You’d wanted to make it clear that you weren’t to be messed with; you’d succeeded. You could see the way Tommy tiptoed around his words now, you could see the genuine thought that he placed within every sentence. The stares, the lingering looks, the small smiles, the lift of his chin; that was all back again.

You also wanted to make it clear that this would be a slow process. Your trust wasn’t something so easily attained, and Tommy had lost his share of yours those final few weeks in Birmingham—

You were not ready to give it back to him.

Then, there was Michael—

He was kind. He was smart. He _felt._ You cared for him, you couldn’t deny it, but despite imagining his kiss, you couldn’t believe you’d actually _attained_ it.

You smacked your hands to your forehead, one thought bombarding your skull—

_Do you still love him? Do you still love him?_

“I don’t know,” You said aloud. It battered you in ways you had never felt until now. You had always shrugged it off when you were asked it, not wanting to actually dwell on whether you still loved the Blinder.

You still couldn’t work it out, two sides of you in a conflict that not even yourself could fully comprehend.

You found yourself needing to get away; to run, just for a while. You dressed quickly, running a brush through your hair haphazardly and grabbing the necessities—

Cigarettes, keys;

_Your father’s revolver._

You left the Red Rose without telling anyone you were going. You left, one person on your mind the entire time, up until you knocked on the door and he opened it gently.

“Y/N?” Michael spoke softly as you stood on the doorstep to the Blinder’s London house.

In one motion, your lips were pressed against his, breathing him in, arms snaking their way around his shoulders until you felt his own around your waist.

Michael kicked the door shut without another breath.

-

“What’re you thinking about?” Michael whispered. You both laid in his bed, your head pressed against his shoulder, your skin bare. You swirled your fingertips across his chest, your breathing in sync.

“I don’t want to think about anything,” You said, avoiding his question.

In truth, you had no thoughts. Your head was empty of everything; it was as if you were numb to the action you’d just instigated. You couldn’t feel your limbs that lay flush against Michael’s bare legs, torso, chest.

You couldn’t feel your body.

“Tell me,” Michael said. You shifted your gaze to his eyes, your fingers stopping.

“I wanted to know how it felt,” You said, not sure where the words had sprung from.

“Feel what?” He urged, but not demandingly so.

You breathed in deeply and exhaled. You were about to say all that you now knew to be true. The numbness you felt had made things clear for the first time in your life—

You knew yourself, utterly and completely, in this moment.

Finally.

“I wanted to know how it felt to sleep with a man who cares for me, and who I care for in return,” You said, not hesitating with your words. “Before this, I had never slept with a man because of my feelings for him. I have always done it for need or lust, not for the affection or love I craved deep down. So, I came to you.” You felt Michael tense.

“I see,” He said, guilt beginning to trickle through you.

Suddenly, it was clear what you’d done—

You had _used_ him.

“Michael—,” You began.

“He still loves you, doesn’t he?” You frowned at him, but didn’t speak. “Did he tell you today? That he still has those feelings for you, that they never went away?”

Your silence was the only answer he needed.

“I’m sorry,” You croaked, the feeling of tears beginning to well hitting you. Michael stayed still, not moving away from you.

“We’ve both done the same thing, Y/N,” He said. You shot your gaze to his eyes. He smiled down at you sadly. “I wanted to fix you, in truth,” He began. “Seeing you so broken after what he’d done, I felt I had a duty of care. You were so devoid of everything. So, I did everything I could to get you back.” He smiled, his eyes glinting. “I never expected to feel for you like this, however.”

You couldn’t explain the relief that flowed through you. You had done a horrible thing; you’d used him in such a way; but he had done this for his own selfish reasons as well.

You were even.

You were the same piece of string.

“I think you and I are the same, Michael,” You smiled back at him. “I think I was somehow trying to find myself in you.”

“And I in you.” Michael replied.

“Is it so horrible of me to say that you shouldn’t dwell on what we’ve just done?” You let out. Michael exhaled.

“I _will_ think of this fondly, Y/N. But I won’t hold it over yours or Tommy’s heads. That is not what this was about.”

You shifted to place a kiss upon Michael’s cheek, your bodies still pressed together. In that moment in didn’t feel sexual, but emotional. It didn’t feel physical, but it still felt warm. It was odd that only after sleeping with Michael did you realise what you’d actually wanted from him all along. You wondered if it had been the same for him.

“I’m going to have to tell him about this, aren’t I?” You asked.

“I think so, yes. You already know just how fragile Tommy is. He needs to know the truth, and to know that it was not done from malice.”

You wanted to yell at how mature Michael was, for someone so young. You felt like a child compared to him, despite being older. You expected he was wiser, though. He sat, he listened, he deducted; you didn’t have the patience, or the desire to stick around when deep conversations were in the equation.

You sat in silence for a few moments more, the noise of cars and clubs and people flooding in from outside.

“Aren’t you going to ask me again if I still love him?” You let out, a shiver shooting up your spine. Michael shuffled, moving you closer to him and draping duvet over your bare shoulders.

“That was never my question to ask.”

-

You entered the restaurant that same evening, a simple jumpsuit hugging your waist.

Tommy was already sat at the table. He stood when you made your way over to him, grabbing the chair opposite his own for you to sit upon.

You sat, nothing but the chatter of the restaurant being shared between you both, even as Tommy sat down in his own chair again.

For a second you had a suspicion that _he knew_. He knew— Thomas Shelby knew that you and Michael had slept together— Thomas Shelby knew everything.

_No._

That’s what you used to believe;

Not anymore.

Tommy wasn’t a mind reader, and even if he was, he had no right telling you who you could or couldn’t sleep with.

You coughed to break the silence, taking a sip of the gin that Tommy had already ordered you.

“So,” You said.

“So.” He replied. Or repeated. You didn’t know if he was mocking you or just as stumped for words as you were.

This was odd— very odd. Not even while you’d almost been with him had you and Tommy had dinner together. That made it all seem all the more strange. You felt as if you didn’t belong here.

Tommy straightened himself in his seat, swallowing uncomfortably. He placed his hands, fingers intwined, on the table in front of him.

“How was your day?” He asked, almost painfully. You’d never seen Tommy so— nervous.

He was nervous.

“Fine,” You answered plainly. “How about yourself?”

Tommy leaned back slightly.

“Fine,” He replied.

_God. This was agony._

You forced yourself to lean forward, determined to make yourself perfectly clear. This was just two friends, having dinner. This wasn’t anything more, despite Tommy’s sudden desire to spill his guts to you earlier today.

“Look, Tommy—,”

“To your business, to partnership,” He interrupted, raising his glass confidently, as if he’s never been timid before.

You indulged him, raising your own drink until your glasses struck.

His eyes hit yours so suddenly, as your glasses chimed together—

You were in Michael’s bed again, asking him if he was going to question whether you still loved Tommy once more.

You had, once. Maybe you still did, but even so, that love had been so deeply betrayed, so hammered down by trauma, growth, repulsion and heartache, that you didn’t think you’d ever let yourself go back to where you’d once been.

“Where do you buy your liquor from?” He asked. You fluttered back to the present.

“Excuse me?” You asked, too stunned by such an offhand question.

“I have connections, you see. To someone I’ve worked closely with. He operates in Camden Town.”

Camden Town. You knew exactly who he was referring to, and you didn’t like it.

“I only know of one connection you could possibly have in that area of London, Tommy. And it’s a no.” You took a sip of your gin, intent on changing the subject immediately.

“Oh?” Tommy’s eyebrow perked up, a smirk appearing on his lips.

“If this was a business dinner, I would have prepared myself more,” You let out.

“But see, you’re already prepared. You already know who I’m talking about.”

Your blood started to boil. You flicked your hair out of your eyes, a sternness appearing on your face.

“You lure me here on a pretence of something else, just to discuss business? This is a new low, Thomas, even for you.”

“I’ve done no such thing, Y/N. I’m simply making conversation.”

“Conversation about my business. Which I never wanted you to be a part of.”

“I think we both know you want nothing to do with myself and the Blinders; yet here we are.”

_Here we are._

You slammed your drink down on the table, standing suddenly. “I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. I refuse to play your game, Tommy. Time and time again, you prove to me that you can’t grow any sense of heart.” 

You turned to leave, and your eyes hit his—

“Miss L/N,” He spoke, his voice coarse. It was clear he had a thick cockney accent. His face was rugged, a harsh beard covering his jaw and faint scarring faded into his skin. “Leaving already?”

Alfie Solomons stood before you, a man that you’d only heard about, first, from Tommy; but more so when you’d stepped foot in London.

If the Blinders ruled Birmingham, then the Solomons' ruled London—

And you were face to face with the leader of that empire.


	20. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yoooOOOOOOOOOO

****

“Did Tommy not tell you about this little meeting he invited me to?” 

You found yourself shaking your head twice, mouth still slightly ajar. 

“Ah— well he’s a naughty boy,” Alfie smiled, showing yellowed teeth, before placing his arms on your shoulders and turning you back towards the table. “Look here, Tommy. Miss L/N didn’t know I was coming,” 

Tommy only smiled. “It was a surprise,” He looked you up and down with a smirk. How could this man go from one end of the line to the other in a matter of hours?

From telling you he still loved you, to forcing you into a business meeting with Alfie Solomons, of all people?

You felt rage bubbling beneath your skin as Alfie lead you back to the table and gently pushed you onto the chair. Alfie quickly grabbed a spare chair from a neighbouring table and placed it at yours and Tommy’s table, sitting down with a small grunt.

“I thought you understood me, Tommy.” You said through a clenched jaw.

“I have never understood you, Y/N. Not really,” He replied, and your stomach dropped. You felt hurt creeping into your bones—the kind of hurt that you’d said you wouldn’t feel anymore, not from him. You sent a glare at him.

“Then read my lips—stay the _fuck_ away from my business.” You downed your gin in one, slamming the glass down on the table. Alfie raised his hands defensively between you and Tommy.

“Whoa, _whoa_ —so much animosity on one, small restaurant table. Look—Miss L/N, I’m aware of your past with the Shelby’s—,” You shot your stare to Alfie, your eyes full of fire. He recoiled physically, glancing over to Tommy. “Yeah, Tommy. This one’s on you,” He sat back in his chair, making a show of fiddling with his fingernails and acting as if he wasn’t there.

Tommy leaned forward. “You said it yourself, when Joseph Kinsmen entered your establishment and pointed a gun at you—if you know _the Shelby’s,_ then who else do you know?” Tommy nodded towards Alfie. “Now, you know the Solomons’.”

“What a fucking _shit_ way to turn it into you _caring_ about my business, Tommy.” You spat. “I’m sorry, Mr Solomons—,”

“Alfie; call me Alfie. Misters always make me feel awkward,” Alfie butt in.

“I’m sorry, _Alfie,_ but I’m here unwillingly. It’s no offense to you, or your business, but I like doing things the old-fashioned way.”

“The old-fashioned way?” Alfie said, genuinely curious. You turned to Tommy, a frown on your face.

“ _Legally_ —alone.” The table sat in silence as your words trickled out. Alfie was looking at Tommy, waiting for a response. You were thinking of a way to get up and leave immediately—you were thinking of how you’d been in Michael’s bed, not three hours before, and was sitting opposite the man that had said he still loved you.

“No one wants to be alone.” Tommy spoke softly, and your gut coiled.

“That’s it. This is the final straw.” You let out, along with most of your pent-up tension. “You keep saying the past is in the past, when you know _fucking_ well it’s not,” You stood up slowly, clarity passing over you. “Are you _truly_ incapable of holding yourself accountable for your words and actions, Tommy?”

Tommy looked up at you, his mouth ajar— speechless.

“I was a fool to ever believe that you actually _meant_ it this time. I was a fool to ever let you back into my life, to have a want to come to your aid,” You were spilling your guts—in front of Alfie Solomons, no less. “If you’re so fond of bringing up past conversations we’ve had, then let me leave you with what _I_ said in your mansion—,”

You leaned forward, getting right in Tommy’s face. His eyes looked sad.

“I have outgrown you—,”

“I’m just trying to _help—,_ ” Tommy interrupted.

“ _Help?_ ” You almost screamed it in his face. “Do you think you’re fucking helping?”

You’d thrown his own words back in his face. It was his turn to feel cornered, to feel like a fool, to feel so empty after you walked out.

He regarded you, taking his time as his eyes fluttered over your cheeks, eyes, lips. It was like he was trying to look at you before you left his life, for the final time—

It was like he was trying to memorise your face.

“No,” He let out. “I’m not helping.”

You were astounded he’d even admitted to his actions, but you still held your ground.

“No, you’re not.” You added, before standing up straight. “I thought I’d try to be your friend, an acquaintance, Tommy. But there’s just _too much_ still here,” Tommy stood suddenly, pushing his chair back with a creak.

“If you just— _listen—,_ ”

“Did you listen to _anything_ I just said?” You said, all of a sudden exhausted. You were breathing heavily, staring at his face as it dropped to the floor. “Unbelievable.” You muttered, before turning swiftly on your heels and pacing it to the restaurant exit.

Tommy didn’t follow, you knew he wouldn’t, given that Alfie Solomons had just witnessed the entire ordeal.

Tommy slumped back into his chair, running a shaking hand through his askew hair. Alfie leaned on the table, grabbing a fork and bringing it to his mouth. His wiggled it between his teeth, trying to get something out.

“Y’know, mate. You’re not really that good with women, are you?”

Tommy scowled at Alfie’s words, raising his arm to get the cheque.

-

You knocked on the door of Ada’s house, trying to keep it together.

You’d just cut Thomas Shelby off—for the last time.

When the door opened, you caught your breath as John stood in the doorway.

“Oh—it’s you,” He said, his voice a mixture of surprise and something harsher. As soon as you tried to speak, your throat closed up. Tears began to well in your eyes, too thick and too fast to stop them from trickling down your cheeks. “Y/N?” John said, concern suddenly laced within his voice.

“I’m sorry,” You managed to let out, right before sobs consumed you.

John grabbed you by the shoulders and swiftly brought you inside, embracing you as the door slammed shut. You sobbed into John’s chest, years and years of pent-up anger, frustration, hurt and anguish—all you saw was _his_ face—

Opening the door at Number 12, Watery Lane—

Painting in the seclusion of his bedroom—

Sitting in his moonlit office as smoke billowed through the skies—

You’d finally done something that you’d been waiting years to do. You thought you would feel the most relief you’d ever felt, you thought you’d smile, or laugh, or scream, at the thought that you were finally free of him, but all you felt was a weight in your chest that was doubling—tripling—in size, the more you thought of his face.

His soft touches—

His subtle glances—

The way he knew you were worth more than you’d been given—

The way he’d _wanted_ to try and fix this, but had gone about it in the only way he knew how—

_Thomas fucking Shelby_ —

“I— _still love him_ ,” You spoke into John’s chest. Those four words rang in your ears like a car crash.

“John? _Oh_ —Y/N,” Polly and Ada rounded the corner from the living room, stopping when they saw you encased in John’s arms.

“What?” John said to you, softly. You forced yourself to sniff, wiping your face quickly, before meeting all of their faces, one by one.

Your eyes landed on Polly, last. Her eyebrows were furrowed, her hands were clasped together over her heart.

“I still love him.” You repeated; and that’s when you knew it was true. The creak of a stair sounded, and you shot your gaze to Michael, stood on the second to last step. “Tommy,” You added, as if you were trying to tell yourself it was him.

Michael only smiled at you, nodding his head once, subtly.

You got the feeling he’d already known this to be true, all along.

Polly was the first to let out a laugh, because it was all so comical. The ordeal you’d had to go to, just to realise you were still utterly in love with the Blinder—

It was borderline _hilarious._

“What do I do now?” You let out.

Polly approached you, gripping your shoulders gently. You fell into her grasp, and with it came all of your remorse, your anger, your numbness. Polly tucked your hair behind your ear, smiling softly.

“You can breathe.”


	21. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're getting close to the end of this one, and i don't have a third instalment planned. i think if i kept going, it would only ruin the story. 
> 
> that being said, PLEASE COMMENT HEADCANON IDEAS FOR READER AND TOMMY!! i am not ready to say goodbye to this character i have created, and i'd like to think that all of you who've continued reading would want to read more (maybe?). 
> 
> despite the fact i call this character reader, i feel like she is a real person. i don't know who, i don't know what name she goes by, but i hope you all know that she is more than that of a typical reader insert (which i have been told many times, and i am so thankful, really thankful). 
> 
> so yes, we're approaching the end, and it'll go out with a bang, for sure. 
> 
> comment below your thoughts or ideas or scenarios you wish i'd added into this ALMOST 100K LONG fic. jesus, how did i write that???? this is the longest thing ive ever written and didnt know i had it in me!
> 
> enjoy x

You slept like a log and woke feeling the most refreshed you’d ever felt. You embraced the afternoon sun as it cascaded in through your window, rolling out of bed and stretching hard until you felt your limbs come alive.

You felt amazing—the best you’d felt in years—

Possibly the best you’d felt since things had kicked off in Birmingham.

You washed and dressed, humming to yourself all the while. Martin popped his head around your door frame, a quizzical look all over his face.

“Are you _humming_?” He said, almost judgmentally.

“Hm?” You hummed in response, combing some oil through your wet hair. You simply smiled at him in the reflection of your mirror, as if you didn’t have a worry in the world.

“Okay—you’re being strange,” He said, inviting himself into your room and crossing his arms. He planted himself on your unmade bed, crossing his legs. “Did you get a lobotomy?”

You rolled your eyes at his reflection. “Jesus. I’m just _happy,_ alright?”

“You? Happy?” Martin said, and you scoffed suddenly, turning to face him.

“Martin!” You yelled jokily.

“What? Oh, come on, Y/N. You haven’t actually smiled properly since opening night here,” You regarded him, sending him a disapproving smirk.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” You let out, chuckling to yourself as the words slipped from your mouth. You turned back to the mirror, grabbing your make up from the counter.

“Seriously, though. What’s happened?”

“Why does something need to have happened? Can’t I just be _happy_ for once?” You replied.

“Uh, no. I don’t think you’re capable of that, Y/N,” You tutted into your mirror, but Martin was smiling jokingly at your reflection. You were hesitant to tell him what had your spirits up, knowing how he felt about Tommy. He would no doubt call you crazy for still being in love with such a man, but you didn’t need someone else, other than yourself, screaming at you for it.

“Well, if you must know,” You said. “I’ve realised something about myself. Something that’s been weighing me down for a long time.” You dabbed your face with powder, smoothing out your skin.

Martin’s jaw _dropped_ open.

“No,” He said. You stopped what you were doing, turning to face him like a child ready for a scolding. “Y/N—no—,”

“Just—hear me out—,”

“ _God,_ no. Are you _insane_?” Martin stood slowly, beginning to pace your room in a deep thought.

“I mean, probably, but—,”

“Thomas _fucking_ Shelby? Really? After _everything_ —,”

“Yes, I _know_ , but you said it yourself before—,”

“But he—he’s— _him_! And you—,”

“You said _yourself_ that you could see something there—,”

“Yes, I said I _saw_ something—not that you should have gone _back_ to him,” Martin snapped, a finality present within his voice. You stood, walking towards him and grasping his hands in your own. Martin stared up at you with big eyes.

“I haven’t told him. Yet.” You said.

“Y/N,” Martin began, squeezing your hands. “I just don’t want him to do what he did before.”

“I know. Me neither, believe me,” You let out a small chuckle. “He doesn’t even know that I still love him, Martin. I’m still deciding whether or not to do something about it,”

Martin raised a hand to your cheek, his thumb circling your face caringly.

“I’m happy for you,” He said sadly. “I know you’re intelligent enough to know what you want, and what you need to do,” He added. You felt a warmth rush through you.

“Thank you.” You said, giving him a bright smile.

“Who else knows? About this realisation, I mean,”

“I figured it out last night, after a shocking dinner _date,_ ” You laughed to yourself, moving back to your vanity. “He’d invited Alfie fucking Solomons, something about giving me extra protection, but I didn’t like it one bit.” You patted blush onto your cheeks. “I yelled, he interrupted, I yelled more and ended up storming out of the fucking restaurant.”

“Classic,” Martin added, smiling like a schoolboy at this gossip.

“I walked to Ada’s and I was thinking _this is it. This is the last time I’ll ever fight or laugh or hate Thomas Shelby._ And I just— _burst_ — into tears as soon as John opened the door to Ada’s house. It just... clicked.” You said, remembering that clarity fondly. “Poll looked at me like my mother used to, and Ada and Michael were just as happy. I think myself and John are alright now, as well,”

“Look at _you_ ,” Martin said. “Everything worked out in the end. After two years of waiting.”

You stopped applying your make-up, a small frown appearing on your face. You stared at your reflection, anxiety rising up through you.

“I hope so,” You said. “I don’t even know if Tommy still wants this, after last night.”

“He’d be a fool not to still want you, Y/N. Don’t be silly.” Martin added.

A fool—Thomas Shelby was many things, but he was never the fool—

You had been, though. On and off, for the last two years and _all_ of your life before that.

You forced yourself to smile, your happiness from earlier on disappearing completely, being replaced by nerves, unanswered questions and worst-case scenarios bombarding your skull as fast as a bullet could fire.

You’d had the realisation, and you knew—

But Tommy _didn’t_ —

And you had no idea how you were going to tell him the truth.

You were restless for the rest of the day. Up until the moment your club doors opened, you’d been too preoccupied with the thoughts in your head. Tommy hadn’t come into the Red Rose, like the usual routine he’d adopted since being here with you in London.

Polly and, for a change, Ada, were the first in as the clock struck 8pm.

Ada’s eyes glistened as she looked around the bar; it was a look that you knew well; it was one you had whenever you stopped and admired what you’d built.

“Ladies—what can I get you?” You said professionally, as they leaned on the bar.

“Anything with gin in it,” Ada said with a chuckle. You started pouring a signature cocktail for her and Poll.

“Rough day?” You asked.

Ada and Polly looked at each other, their eyes full of _something,_ and it certainly didn’t look fun.

“Grab yourself a drink and come and talk with us for a moment,” Polly said, gently patting your hand as you sat their cocktails atop the bar.

You followed them to a booth, hands shaking as you held a gin and tonic for yourself. You had a horrible feeling in the pit of your stomach, and you didn’t know why. You sat opposite them, taking a large gulp of gin and fumbling for your cigarettes. You lit one as quickly as you could, before waiting.

Polly looked at Ada morbidly.

“Enough of those silent stares. What’s going on?” You said, sucking in a large breath of smoke. You let it out when your lungs were about to scream.

“Y/N, Tommy’s gone back to Birmingham.”

You felt your heart start to crawl its way up your throat. You fumbled when you picked up your glass, a few drops of gin hitting the table and the end of your cigarette, putting it out. You exhaled harshly, throwing the cigarette to the floor, before you went to grab another.

Polly stopped you by placing her hands over your own.

“Y/N,” She said; pitiful.

You hated it when people looked, spoke, pitifully towards you. You hated it.

“Did he say why?” You said sternly, pulling your hands away from Polly’s.

“I think we all know why he did, Y/N,” Ada chimed in, tapping her glass with her nails.

You scoffed, grabbing another cigarette and placing it between your lips.

Despite the fact you wanted to cry, you also felt _silly._ The time Tommy decided to do the thing you’ve wanted him to do from the beginning, and it’s when you’ve realised you still love him? It was all so fucking typical, all so fucking _annoying._

“That _bastard,_ ” You said, chuckling afterwards. You sucked in cigarette smoke and blew it out quickly, amazed that for once, he’d actually _listened_ to you. “So that fucker _finally_ does what I’ve wanted him to do from the start, and it’s that exact moment that I realise I still fucking love him,” You breathed in, but when you breathed out you couldn’t stop a colossal, loud laugh from following.

You were astounded that this was happening. It was all too comical not to laugh at.

The years of unanswered questions—

Of back and forth, over and over and _over_ again—

Just for Tommy to _leave_ before you could tell him those silly three words.

“So,” You scoffed, downing your gin. “He’s just—gone? Poof?” You weren’t even talking to Polly and Ada anymore; you were talking to yourself. “He really thinks he can just _leave?_ ”

“So,” Polly said, her eyes shining with something mischievous. “What are you going to do about it?”

-

“When did he leave?” You shouted, as you swung open your car door. Polly and Ada launched themselves into the back and front seat, the whole car swaying as you slammed the door shut and put the key in the ignition.

“Only a few hours ago,” Polly said, buckling herself in. “He’s probably only halfway to Birmingham.”

“Well, then,” You said, revving the engine. “We’ll just have to catch him.”

You felt an odd sense of calm being behind the wheel, knowing where you were about to drive to once more.

Compared to the last time you were about to make this journey, when it was nothing but nerves and pain and confusion, you knew exactly what you wanted—

You wanted Thomas Shelby—

And he’d wanted you from the very beginning.

You weren’t afraid anymore, not of him or your feelings or the world he was apart of. It was a world you were acquainted with, both with the Shelby’s and living by yourself. It was one you knew how to navigate and, _finally_ , one you knew how to overcome.

Oh, you were going to give him hell for leaving, of course— but you had a feeling Tommy would already expect that from you.

It was an odd dynamic you had, but at the heart of it both of you knew how spectacular the other was.

Tommy knew you weren’t to be messed with; he knew you were strong, capable, feisty— _plucky—_ from what Polly had said all those years ago.

You knew Thomas was smart, an incredible business and family orientated man. You knew that because, for a little while, you’d almost been a part of that family—

Maybe you were, right now—

Maybe when John said he thought of you as a sister, he’d _properly_ meant it.

You pondered all of this as the car engine began spluttering. You thought all of this as your foot slammed on the accelerator—

Martin burst through the back door as soon as you hit the pedal.

“Wait!” He screamed, and you hit the brakes; hard. “You forgot this,” He rushed to your side of the car, placing something cold and heavy in your hands—

Your father’s revolver.

“Just in case,” He said, sending you a smile. You smiled back brightly, furrowing your eyebrows in determination.

“Thank you,” You replied, giving his hand a hard squeeze. You placed the gun in your coat pocket and sent a final smile to Martin. You slammed on the accelerator once more, the car zooming off through the streets of London and heading to the main road—

Heading for Birmingham—

Heading for home.


	22. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it, the final chapter. 
> 
> I can't thank you all enough for the support I've received while writing this over the past 9 months. It's been a ride, and I've loved every minute of it.
> 
> Thank you, and finally,
> 
> Enjoy x

If Polly and Ada were scared of your idiotic driving, they didn’t show it. Their faces stayed steely and controlled as you whizzed down the road like a maniac, overtaking as many cars and carriages that you physically could.

The sun began to set an hour into the race. It was odd, driving on roads as the sky began to dim, getting darker and darker. You switched on the front lights and shivered slightly, getting more restless and anxious with every mile driven.

“What’re you both thinking about?” You said, hoping to have any type of distraction. Polly looked into the backseat at Ada, who let out a huff.

“I’m thinking about what you’re going to say to my idiot brother when we catch him,” Ada smiled playfully; it was contagious, overtaking Polly’s face as well.

“Truthfully, I’m also thinking that.” Polly let out. “What’re you thinking about?”

_Not that._

In fact, you were thinking about literally _anything_ , except what you would say to Tommy after reaching him—

You were thinking about what Alfie Solomons thought of you—

What Joseph Kinsmen had told his father after being banished from your club—

What Harry was doing at the Garrison.

You weren’t thinking about what it would feel like for Tommy to _know,_ for you to place your lips against his again, for him to embrace you once more, or glance at you from the bar, cigarette dangling from his teeth, reserved expression slapped across his face while his eyes shot fire in your direction.

_Tommy fucking Shelby._

You had to let out a shaky breath that you’d been holding.

“Don’t be nervous,” Polly interjected. She looked you up and down, sensing your uneasiness.

“You never let Tommy give you crap, I don’t expect that’ll change when we catch him. God—I just want you to _yell_ at him, to be honest,” Polly let out a breathy chuckle, followed by Ada.

“Yell at him? I do an awful lot of that already, Poll,” You let out, but a smile followed.

You tried not to dwell on your words, or how you’d say them. You knew that as soon as you saw his face, you’d know exactly what to say—

_You’d know_.

“I slept with Michael,” You let out suddenly, taking yourself utterly by surprise. You had no idea why’d just said it.

Polly and Ada sat in silence, their faces revealing all you needed to know.

“And you already knew?” You added quizzically.

Polly was the first to break.

“Michael told me,”

“Then Polly told me,” Ada chimed in.

“Right,” You said, a mixture of relief and annoyance appearing. “Great.”

“It doesn’t matter, Y/N,” Polly said. “You and Michael know the reasons why it happened. You’ve both moved past it. There’s nothing wrong with what happened,” She kept her eyes forward. “Besides, I had a feeling it was going to happen ever since you got back from Goring,” Polly added, a smile creeping its way onto her face.

You glanced at Ada in the mirror; her smile was the perfect imitation of Polly’s.

“Well, alright then,” You said, and with it came all of your tension you’d once held about the subject. You had no idea why you’d been scared to speak of it, when the experience had been what gave you clarity.

You and Michael had no hardships—it was in the past.

It happened, and it had been good. And Polly and Ada knew—which meant it was probably a certainty that Tommy had caught on.

“You don’t care that I slept with your son?” You asked Polly, curious. Polly burst out laughing.

“Oh, _please_ , Y/N. I don’t care what Michael does anymore, he’s a grown man. And I certainly don’t mind him sleeping with _you_ out of all the women in the world,” Polly’s chuckles were contagious, filling the car with a good feeling.

Since you’d started driving, you finally started to feel more at ease.

That was, until you still hadn’t caught up with Tommy—

Another hour passed before you started to get more anxious; you should have caught up with him by now, driving exceedingly over the speed limit.

“I don’t get it,” Ada said, poking her head out the back window slightly. “Unless he was also speeding all the way back to Birmingham?”

You looked at Polly sharply, her eyes hitting yours with the same ferocity.

“You don’t know exactly why he left, do you?” You asked, your voice slightly shaky.

“No, we don’t,” Polly replied sternly.

You slowly pressed your foot onto the accelerator even more so. You had a horrible feeling in your gut, one that was screaming at you—

It was telling you that Tommy could be in _danger_ —

Enough danger to get out of London as quickly as he could.

-

It was pitch black by the time you reached Tommy’s mansion. Your heartbeat overpowered your entire body, making you thud with every pump.

The slam of car doors echoed throughout the estate, nothing but the sound of crickets in crisp grass filling the air.

No lights were on, no fires were lit.

The house looked deserted; stuck in time; abandoned.

“Is he even here?” Polly chided.

You nodded slowly, pointing at Tommy’s parked car to the left of the driveway.

Something felt _off—_

_Something felt dangerous._

You gripped onto your father’s revolver in your coat pocket, the cold metal offering you some sort of comfort from what stood in front of you.

The three of you crept to the front doors as Polly fumbled for keys. You placed your hand on the door, and it creaked open eerily—

The three of you changed immediately, your stances going from afraid to on guard. Something, or someone, was in that house. Maybe it was just Tommy—maybe it was someone else. All you knew was that you needed to know if he was okay.

You were the first to enter the house, revealing the gun from your pocket and pointing it in front of you defensively.

“Jesus, Y/N—you really think we’ll need that?” Ada whispered behind you, but her voice shook as she spoke.

“Yes. I do,” You replied, your voice echoing throughout the lobby of the house. “Polly, go to the kitchen. Grab the poker from the dining room as a weapon,” You had no idea where your words were coming from, but it was as if you’d been sucked into the Peaky Blinders realm as soon as you’d stepped across the threshold. “Ada, go to Tommy’s study. Take the sword off the wall in the drawing room,”

Polly and Ada left your side as soon as their orders were spoken. You began the ascent up the stairs. With every step that creaked you stopped—holding your breath for a few seconds—hearing working overtime—before taking another step towards the landing.

You scoured the guest rooms— _empty._

You held your breath as you saw Tommy’s portrait once more, moonlight hitting the canvas. His face looked muddied in this light, dirty, like someone had drenched the canvas in molasses.

You swore to yourself in a whisper, trying desperately to get rid of the tension you held. You tried not to imagine what could have happened, you tried to think that, perhaps, Tommy was so tired upon arrival he forgot to close the front door—

Maybe he’d gone to bed as soon as he’d arrived home. Maybe he’d told Mary and Paula to go home for the evening, after taking care of Charlie for such a long period of time.

Maybe.

You made your way further down the corridor, towards the nursery and Tommy’s bedroom.

You entered Tommy’s room precariously, inching the door open with your foot, until you could see the entire outline of the room—

The bed was empty—

But you couldn’t stop a sudden feeling of dread from making its way up your throat. It clasped you by the neck and held on for dear life. You knew deep down that this wasn’t a normal situation—

This was going to end in bullets and blood.

You crept your way through Tommy’s room to the shut door to Charlie’s nursery. Hesitantly, you placed your ear to the door, trying to hear if anything—anyone—was on the other side.

Your heart dropped when you heard the shuffling—

The whispering—

The cock of a gun—

The muffled cries of, not even, a two-year old child—

“Won’t he shut up?” A voice whispered frantically. You knew it well—the slimy way it cut through the air, the distain it carried.

_Joseph Kinsmen._

“Why’re you here?” Tommy’s voice sounded; you held your breath. They didn’t know you were here, and that’s how you wanted it to stay.

“You’re insufferable, Tommy. You know that?” Joseph said, and you could tell he was snickering behind his words. “You think you’re immortal.”

“ _You_ think I’m immortal,”

“I think with a bullet through your skull, you’ll be anything but.”

Your feet were the first thing to go numb at Joseph’s words. He was holding Tommy and Charlie hostage—he got Tommy to race back to Birmingham at a threat against his son—

He was going to kill Tommy.

“My father doesn’t like people who pretend to be gods,” Joseph continued.

“Your father is no different than what he claims to hate,”

You had no idea how Tommy could sound so steely, so unbothered, in situations like this. You’d seen it a million times—that smirk, the deadpan stare he gave his enemies, the way he’d smart talk his way out of a situation—but you didn’t know if he could do it this time.

“If you kill me, you’ll start a war.”

“You started a war when you showed up at that whore’s club,”

The whore in question was you—no doubt. You immediately saw red as _that word_ hit your ears.

“I wouldn’t call her that if I were you.” Tommy replied, and you could have sworn you heard a malice in his voice—a dark malice—he was offended.

“She’s not here to save your skin, Tommy. I heard through the grapevine that you fucked up a second time.”

“At least your men finally found out the truth—though it did take a while.”

You found yourself smiling slightly— Tommy was playing snarky. As much as you liked the way he acted like this to other gangs, you also couldn’t stop yourself from thinking that any second, Joseph would fire his gun right through Tommy’s forehead.

You had to do something. You had to know where Charlie was in the room. You had to know if you had a clean shot as soon as you burst through that door—

You had to know if you had to _kill_ Joseph Kinsmen.

Charlie let out a loud cry, making you jump.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” Joseph exploded. “Take your fucking child—shut him up or I’ll shoot him first,”

Now you knew— _Tommy had Charlie._

_He was out of your firing line._

Your legs were the next to go numb, pins and needles slowly traversing your entire body, your blood more adrenaline than anything else.

Your eyes saw red, even when you closed them to steady your breathing.

“I’m going to kill you, Thomas Shelby. And no one’s going to know, apart from your crying son, staring at his father’s dead body until he can’t cry anymore.” You heard Joseph raise his gun, his breathing deepening. “ _I’m_ going to kill you,”

You were thrown into two years prior, to Tommy’s bedroom. He’d just placed his cigarette between your lips, his knees touching yours, his face mere inches from your own—

_“You wish to know if we’re murderers.”_

Back then, you hadn’t known that on this day—

_You would become one as well._

At that moment, your soul left your body.

You burst through the door, stopping only to line your father’s revolver up to Joseph’s head—

You looked down at yourself as your finger twitched on the trigger, as Tommy held Charlie close to his chest, dropping to the floor immediately—

Joseph didn’t even realise what was coming until the bullet flew through his temple—

Until it cracked its way out the other side of his skull—

Shattering his bone—

His brain—

His life—

And hitting the brick wall on the other side of the room.

You dropped to the floor as your ears rang agonisingly. You clamped your palms to your ears, letting out a silent scream as you saw Joseph’s lifeless body drop to the floor with a sickening thud.

Time flowed slowly as you took in what you’d just done—

The blood bled through into the carpet instantly, thick and black and warm. His eyes were open, wide, almost like he was still alive.

You couldn’t feel your body; it felt like it was sinking through the floor, that you were going to travel all the way down to Hell with no way back up.

You didn’t notice when Polly and Ada ran into the room. Ada picked you up by the shoulders, shaking you vigorously, her face red and maniacal—you couldn’t hear her cries, despite seeing her mouth move.

Polly ran to her nephew, cradling Charlie to her chest as Tommy stood shakily and made his way to you and his sister.

He grabbed Ada’s hands and unhinged them from your shoulders. You dropped back to the floor, your knees not registering the thud. Tommy knelt on the floor with you, his eyes piercing your own. He pressed his hands to either side of your face, his thumbs circling your cheeks.

The ringing in your ears began to dissolve as you looked into the Blinder’s eyes.

Your soul slowly re-entered your body, and with it came a blast of noise—

Charlie was screaming; a cry so shrill it was enough to curdle cream. Ada and Polly whisked him out the room immediately, passing you and Tommy as you stayed glued to the floorboards. You blinked, and gasped immediately at the picture that appeared beneath your eyelids—

Blood—

Joseph dead by your own bullet.

“Just look at me,” Tommy said, furrowing his eyelids, deep breaths pouring in and out of his mouth. “Don’t look at him, look at me,”

You kept your eyes plastered on his own, now too afraid to blink.

“When you close your eyes, think of me.” You did as you were told—

You scrunched your eyes together, letting out a wail as the image of Joseph flashed once more, but you kept them closed; you forced yourself to think of Tommy, Polly, John, Arthur—Small Heath—London—Martin, Ada—

_Everything you held dear._

Slowly, the image of Joseph faded to black in your mind, replaced by them all—their smiles, their laughter, their whiskey and their cigarettes.

You opened your eyes as you felt your body melt into Tommy’s grip.

“He’s gone,” You said, and Tommy let out a relieved breath.

“Good,” He replied, and the tension within the room was all but gone.

Tommy picked up your father’s revolver, stashing it in his pocket, before he helped you up from the floor and held you to his chest.

He didn’t say anything—neither did you.

You felt his heart beating beneath his ribcage and knew that was enough.

He held you like his life depended on it and you knew that was enough.

You allowed Tommy to lead you out of the room, his arm clutching you to his side, your head snug between his neck and shoulder until he shut the door, encasing Joseph’s body in permanent darkness.

**Two Months Later**

You finished applying your make up in your room, tucking your hair behind your ears and standing back to see your whole body in the mirror. You wore a pair of wide leg trousers and a silk blouse, unbuttoned to just above your bosom.

You grabbed the essentials—cigarettes, keys—which you stuffed in your pockets—your father’s revolver—which you positioned in the back waistband of your trousers, tucked in beneath your blouse, before making your way downstairs to prep the club opening.

It was an hour before the doors were to open, and the bar was empty. Your staff hadn’t yet arrived, and Martin hadn’t even bathed yet.

You strolled through from the back, making your way into the main room—

Thomas Shelby sat on a stool at the bar, his back turned to you, reading a cocktail menu.

You sucked in a deep breath as you approached him, leaning on the bar next to him. You plucked a cigarette from your pockets, bringing it to your lips.

Tommy shuffled within his pockets and revealed a golden lighter. He slid it across the bar to you. You didn’t take it just yet.

“What’s someone like you doing in this here establishment?” You asked him, cigarette dangling from your lips. He turned to you, smirk donned.

“I wish to meet the legendary club owner that everyone’s been talking about,” He began, and you looked at your hands. “I hear she started this business by herself, that she singlehandedly fought off the Kinsmen gang,” He paused, his face turning into something softer. “I hear that she loves a man whom she’s better off without.”

You took in his words, before you picked up his lighter. It was golden, smooth, cold— engraved on the surface were your initials. You lit your cigarette, inhaling smoke deep into your lungs as you made your way round the bar, until you were stood opposite Tommy.

“I don’t think she’s better off without him,” You said, and Tommy’s eyes hit yours. “From what I’ve heard, they just got lost along the way.”

“You heard that, did you?” Tommy played along.

“Oh yes, it’s the talk of the town. I hear he’s a gang leader himself.” You held the lighter in your hands, rubbing the engraving with your thumb.

“Which gang?”

“Pesky— _something_. Pesky something. I don’t know. They’re not from around here,” You flicked ash on the ground, trying to stop yourself from smiling. “I hear he has a temper and an attitude problem, that he has a habit of butting his nose into things that don’t concern him.”

“Is that right?” Tommy replied light-heartedly. “And what about her? The club owner.”

“Oh, she’s marvellous,” You replied without hesitation, inhaling smoke. Tommy raised his eyebrows as if to ask if there was anything else to add. “That’s all.”

It was impossible not to smile now. Tommy mimicked your expression.

“He’s a lucky man, then.”

“Yes,” You said, reaching out to take his hand in yours. “He is.”

Tommy placed his other hand over yours, thumb circling your knuckles.

After Joseph, you and Tommy had gone separate ways. There was too much damage done, too many people pointing fingers. In the end, Tommy had made it public to gangs that the Peaky Blinders were the reason for Joseph’s demise—

He’d stuck to his promise. He’d protected you.

This was the first time you’d seen him since you’d left his estate those months ago.

You tried to stop yourself from tearing up as Tommy stared at you, his presence being nothing but overwhelming after so long apart from him.

“Are you back now? Is it safe?” You asked, trying to keep your voice strong.

“It’s never safe for people like us, Y/N,” Tommy said, but he kept a smile on his face. “But it’s no more unsafe than normal.”

Slowly, he reached out and held your chin, tracing your lips with his thumb.

“May I kiss you?” He asked, and your heart dropped to the pit of your stomach—

You’d spent these two months imagining what it would be like when he came back, when it was safe. You’d held his letters and cried, you hadn’t slept a lot of the time, craving his touch, his company, his warmth.

Tommy Shelby was many things—a Blinder, a murderer, a bad man, sometimes—but he was also the one thing you wanted to hold onto for the rest of the life.

You would never let him slip through your fingers ever again, and you knew he felt the same, after all that had happened.

All that time wasted, just to get back to where you were both meant to be—

_Together._

You smiled at him— _Tommy fucking Shelby_ —

“You may.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment headcanons of Tommy and reader! I'd love to write some one shots. I'm not ready to say goodbye yet.


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